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Cn&otoeb fap {Efje dialectic 


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This book must not be 
taken from the Library 

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Digitized by the Internet Archive 
in 2013 




A Story 
By R. K. Fowler 


the score is close* 

Keep cool with 

nood'U r3pe 

That g ood- grape drink 

Heating and EnOineerino Contractors 


318 Holland St. 

Everything on Cam 

s lor Last Four Yea 









OCTOBER, 1926 



Proof ( Verse) Anne Blackwell Payne 

White Stranger Eric Walrond 

Donkey (Verse) Alfred Kreymborg 

Are Catholics People H. A. Breard 

Augury (Verse) G. A. Caldwell, Jr. 

Sonnet ( Verse) Anne Blackwell Payne 

Foreboding ( Verse) Mary Sinton Leitch 

Slaves R. K. Fowler 

To David, Singer of Israel (Verse) . Mary Sinton Leitch 

Why the Opposition D. Scott Poole 

Prayer for a Young Girl ( Verse) . . . Ellen M. Carroll 

Jackson, Tennessee Sara Haardt 

The Bridal Birch (Verse) .... Archibald Rutledge 
The Pasture Book Bazaar 

iniiiiusrripts should be utlilre.sscd I 





\^^^3>^^^^:^^^^^^ ( 9^:^^^:m?^ 


Anne Blackwei.i. Payne 

/ know this is not you, 

You could not sleep so late; 

Nor keep your eyelids closed, so long; 

Your sweet mouth stent and straight. 

White strangers to repose, 
Your hands could never be 
So indolent at ten o'clock: 
Your feet so orderly. 

This face of frost and snow, 
You were too warm to wear; 
And the parting is too accurate, 
Across your cloudy hair. 

I know this is not you 
y Twould shame your courtesy, 
To think you'd let me wait so long — ■ 
And never notice me. 

-«i 2 ] 





White Stranger 

Eric Walrond 
U Called "«» old piece of pot- (^Jr^ttE snow melted and the thin layer of 

tery" by its author, tins sketch or I , ... i 1 j , i . « 

«/ of crockery, contains much that JL ^USt which Speckled the pavement be- 

is not entirely obvious, as old jars came liquid as earth on a river bank. 

are wont to do. Other short stories j f wag fhe hour a f fer nQon and is | e§ Q f 
and sketches by Eric U alrond have . 

**«>„ C0 ««-/^ «ij wft be published crusted dew gleamed on the windows of the 
this fall in a book called "Tropic oyster chop house. There was a Negro play- 

Death" by Boni and Liveright. Mr. , , i . r r a /r j 

M , , /• , u t .t house next door and the line 01 Monday 

Walrond is also a member of the _ ' 

staff of Opportunity, a journal of matinee folk, the noisiest of Bluetown's wild 
negro life. cats ^ eXienc ied a few steps beyond to the 

restaurant door, where a Negro boy with a Jew's harp attracted a noisy 
cluster of bare-legged black urchins. Here to the curb the Irish truck 
driver's brakes ground out a metallic stop. He was apprehensive, his face, 
his mittens black with the murk of arctic toil. 

He strode to the pavement and the Jew's harp instantly lost its charm. 
Other sounds — the cluck and fluster of fowl — distracted. And the win- 
dow's dewy glow lured the blue-eyed ofay on. 

Making their exit, two flashy Negro bucks edged through the door 
mumbling. He was met by a sea of low murmuring chatter. A Creole 
slightly taller than the counter behind which he stood, gave him a check, 
and he slid with easy grace over to a table near the pool of things. 

-<{ 3 )8*— 

As the moments multiplied he was conscious of being strangely alone 
and proceeded, quite innocently, to tap on the table with the green check. 

His vigilant eyes escaped the glare of the frosted window. Indeed, 
only vaguely, negligibly, was he cognizant of the shadows — impish brats — 
..<>»<>.. °n the drowsy street outside. 

A fat Russian girl — broad-faced, red-lipped, sensual — was a symbol of 

October the strayed lamb, and loved spicy Negro food. As she buried her head 

JQ26 m tne plate, her sheared locks, dark as a raven's, fell straight forward 

obscuring the lower portion of her face. But perhaps that was just as well 

for there were flame spots on it making it unseemingly lewd. 

The table nearest hers had at it two nugget-dark gypsy girls arguing 
fatuously. One was slightly fair, truer to the traditional gypsy type, wore 
a rose-leaf scarf and a gown of some downy silk. Speaking with a decided 
Negro drawl the other could as well have been a Carolina mulatto. She 
was mouthy and obdurate and flashed teeth frowsy and brassy. But for the 
shawl and the jewels, the garlic and the peculiar scent of the gypsy, she 
might have been a dickty slut ripe from the Virginia shore. 

The waiters popped ale and indulged in lascivious jibes, and the 
Hoboken ofay viewed the frost rolling down the sun-touched window. 

Blues singers . . . big timers . . . trombone players . . . Jamaica 
mento shakers . . . Bible-slamming deacons . . . Charleston hounds . . 
trap drummers . . . lazy dancers . . . brown-skinned elves . . . has 
beens ... all righteously talking shop. 

He was black as an arctic night and she was a pasty-faced high yellow. 
Under a dark green ulster he was tuxedoed . . . white shirt, white bow 
tie, white, high collar. O, Mistah High Collar! His long shiny bony 
black face curved down at the end like a Turkish sabre. Gory black heads 
pimpled it. The hard white collar shoved the jaws rigorously up. 

Once a sprig of forget-me-nots lay on the brim of the woman's hat. 
Now it sagged, drooped, with a slither of autumnal moss on it. 

Hands folded upon the table, he faced the girl, ravenously disposing 
of the victuals put before her. Occasionally his lips moved, and she'd 
faintly bob her head, remorseful. . . . Ensued long pauses of silence 
broken only by the harsh grizzly crushing of corn beef. Suddenly, in the 
midst of the studied silence, she put down the bone. Something was wrong 
with her clothes. She tore back the coat, and unhooked her black taffeta 
dress. Her near white bosom showed, bare, round. She dug — buried the 
flea or whatever it was further down inside her. With an equal absence 

°<{ 4 }§•"- 

of consciousness she adjusted it, and resumed her gnawing of the beef 
bones. . . 

"Hey waiter," shouted the truck driver, "I ain't got all day. 

Lemme outa dis place." 

"Yassuh, boss, wha' yo' want?" She was petite and brown. 

"That's right — what you got?" and he consulted the bill of fare. 

"Poke chops, fried chicken, mulatto rice, sweet potatoes, cawn beef 
an' cabbage — " 

"Corn beef and cabbage for mine!" 

"One on de cawn — " 

"I'll beta dat's ah ofaginjee!" murmured the pasty-faced half-breed, 
staring at her black pappa. 

Growing expectant the truck driver's eyes swept the other side of the 
table. They fell on two Negro men, musicians, trigged out in tuxes. One 
was brown, the other squash-white. One, broad-featured, crinkly-headed, 
the other sleek, auburn-haired. Face coldly Nordic. 

About to leave, the jig, mothering a saxaphone, rose. A tooth pick 
dangled on his lower lip. 

"Ain't yo' the high-tower, huh?" he of the aspish hair teased. "Cain't 
see wha' yo' light dese days. Yo's big timey, boy, an' tight wit' it." 

"Yo' ain't see me beefin' an' cryin', is yuhr O, no! 'Oan hav' to worry, 
big boy!" he expanded, his chest rising visibly. 

"Come on, Dancy, don't be a goddam piker. Le' yo' buddy in on it." 

"Who me? Aw, no! That'd be too bad fo' de people. Wha' Ah'm 
gwine at de wimmin' don' like no yallah men." 

A gang of street urchins had clustered about the wagon. With clubs 
and sticks they were thwacking the fowl screaming and fluttering around 
in the crates. Some of the kids — a joyous lot — fired stones at the mare, 
who preserved an uneasy rigidity. One ear was lashed suspiciously back on 
her mane. The sun, taking a glimpse, had disappeared, and the sky was 
overcast. The ducks squawked and beat their wings against the wired cages. 
And the Negro kids,glee-mad, circled the wagon, brandishing sticks and clubs. 

How like a jungle rite, this bacchanal in Bluetown! 

Froth gathered at the truck driver's mouth. He was patient and alert, 
stolid j he beat a tattoo, justificating, on the spotless ivory table. 

Another of Bluetown's idols entered, and the girl who'd taken the 
truckman's order skated toward him, eager to lap up his line of brown, 
sweet talk. 






"$ 5 }§►•■- 

.'> — :- V ->. ^ : ->>■: ^ ,' 


Alfred K: 


I'm fool enough to think, 
while April's in clover, 
the sun and the rain 
will change what they can : 

Ass enough to see, 
nose enough to smell 
that what grows as grass 
may be the whole plan: 

Ears that can hear 
how the wet and the dry 
as they mingle and mellow 
may yet sweeten man. 


zAre Qatholics People 

H. A. Breard 

C It 


ubt break the 
hundred per 
centers and Kit Kluxers to learn 
that the old statement, "once a 
Catholic, always a Catholic," is no 
more true than the same statement 
about the Baptists. 

"Contrary to popular belief," 
says H. A. Breard, "just as many 
'bail Catholics' leave the church as 
do those of other denominations, 
and little Catholic altar boys pur- 
loin just as much of the sacramental 
wine as their Protestant brothers." 

IT ~TT ow a certa " 1 "shooting parson" of 
II Texas can stand in the pulpit day after 
day and harangue his credulous listen- 
ers with tales of barbaric cruelty and oppres- 
sion as practiced by the Catholic church, and 
at the same time callously murder an unarmed 
citizen who had come to protest certain state- 
ments of the parson, is inexplicable. 

But the same condition is true of any 
southern Protestant congregation. Knowing- 
nothing about Catholicism as a religion, they characteristically fear the 
worst, and are content to believe the wildest tales, whether from the lips of 
the most illiterate minister, or from the sanctimonious lips of the dema- 
gogue. For an office-seeker to openly denounce the Catholic church as an 
intolerable and dangerous influence to the well-being of our government 
adds a comfortable quota of votes to his total. 

Certain inspired, ignorant, and hard-shelled Protestants are continually 
blaring about that well-known and highly over-estimated octopus, Roman- 
ism, whose Italian tentacles are tearing at the best in one hundred per cent. 
Americans. They give us the most wonderful pictures, painted by per- 
verted imaginations, of the pernicious practices of the Roman Church. Of 
these blatant scoffers, none have ever studied the Catholic faith or have 
been within a church of that persuasion. If they have, their distorted 
imaginations, having a greater cash value than the truth, are brought into 
play. They feed the intolerant that which they desire — alarming false- 

Having been raised in the fold of the Catholic church, serving an early 
apprenticeship as altar boy, and having broken away from the Catholic 
church, as I have from the orthodox doctrines of all others, I can smile at 
the petty fear which seems to grip the minds of good Baptists and Meth- 

, ^- 


odists when the name Catholic is mentioned. Some seem to have the idea 
that once a person is allied with the Catholic church, certain forces are 
brought into play which will keep him forever from gaining his freedom. 
The only force used to keep me, or any other of the Romanist faith within 
the church is that of prayer and family persuasion. 

Some non-Catholics are laboring under the delusion that the Pope is 
all powerful with the Catholics ; that he wields a temporal influence superior 
to that of the rulers of the countries in which the Romanists happen to find 
themselves. This is without foundation. The Pope is all-powerful spiritually, 
and that alone. Pie lays down rules of doctrine, and interprets the laws 
of the Church. But even here he is hampered. He has as much, if not 
more, precedent to guide him than the Supreme Court of the United States. 
Catholics believe that he is infallible only when he speaks ex cathedra, that 
is in matters pertaining to the Church. Of course they do not believe that 
he is incapable of making mistakes and doing harm in his own private life. 
There is too much evidence to the contrary for them to hold such an idea. 

As to temporal matters the Pope's powers are nil. Without doubt some 
would like to wield such power, but they realize that discretion is the better 
part of valor. The popes in ages past did supercede the rulers of the various 
countries, but this was due to force of circumstances — the invasion of the 
barbarians and the weakness of the petty states that sprang up after the 
collapse of the magnificent Roman Empire. A large number of the bar- 
barians had been partially catholicized, and they stood in awe and fear only 
before the successors of St. Peter. After acquiring this power, the rulers 
of the Holy See were loath to give it up, but those days are past. 

The last vestige of their temporal grandeur crumbled beneath them 
when the Papal States annexed themselves to the newly formed Kingdom of 
Italy. The inhabitants were good Catholics, but they voted to go over to 
Italy. They saw themselves primarily as Italians, secondarily as Catholics. 
As a protest against this action, the popes have never since left the Vatican 

Some are opposed to the use of Latin and the ritualistic form in the 
Catholic service. Both have logical foundations. The former is used 
because it is a universal link. The Latin language ties all Catholic churches 
together into a great whole, makes all services uniform, and carries the 
congregation back to the days of the founding of the Church. Then, too, 
the great Supreme Being possibly understands Latin as well as any other 
language. It is to Him that the prayers are directed. 

~<{ 8 }^°- 


The ritual is that to which the Church owes its great strength. After all, 7 he 

religion is a thing of the heart and not of the mind, and what appeals more CAROLINA 
to the heart and carries one to greater ethereal heights than an imposing \] \ ( ; AZINE 
ritualistic mass interspersed with beautifully sentimental music? The poor 
sin-burdened worshipper seems to be raised above this sordid plane during 
such a ceremony. Protestants, also, realizing the power of music to charm, 
introduced it into their gatherings. October 

There is a common belief that the Roman Church forbids the reading 
of the Bible. This is erroneous. A certain portion of the Bible is read each 
day at the celebration of the mass, and the reading of Bible history is 
encouraged. The Holy Book, and prayer books taken from it, may be 
found in almost all Catholic homes. The Church requires, however, that 
its version be read, because Catholics are under the impression that their 
church is the true church and consequently that the Catholic version of the 
Holy Scriptures is the true version. 

Some suspect and many are absolutely sure that the confessional is a 
means of extorting money from the sinner. This may occur. I will not flatly 
deny it. But all during my connection with the Catholic Church, I have 
never had the subject of money raised while in the confessional nor have I 
ever heard of it being extracted as a condition precedent to absolution. Some 
priests may do so, but I do not believe that extortion is nearly so prevalent 
in the Roman Church as in others. The priest has no incentive to extract 
money. He receives sufficient for his upkeep; the remainder of the money 
going into the church fund. And any one who knows the Catholic faith 
realizes that it is not within the power of the priest to forgive. He is 
merely an intermediary. The priest asks God to forgive the sinner if 
he is sorry for the sins that he has committed. If the sinner should not be 
repentant, the confession is of no avail and the sins are all the more 

Some are of the opinion that Catholics think that all marriages outside 
of the Catholic Church are adulterous. This is not the case. Protestant 
marriages are considered valid because the Romanists believe that Protest- 
ants have not seen the true light, and are not responsible for what they do. 
This is the explanation given, but in truth, force of circumstance causes the 
Roman Church to recognize them. It realizes that its members would not 
follow it in a strict construction. However a Catholic who is married by 
other than a priest is considered as living in sin, at least by the officials of 
the Church. Only the more bigoted members give it a second thought. The 

-4 9 J§M- 




Catholic Church teaches that marriage is a holy sacrament conferred upon 
man by God, and only one of God's true representatives is capable of per- 
forming the ceremony. Upon this theory no union may be liquidated ; the 
knot has been tied in Heaven. The parties may separate, but only the 
death of one of them will dissolve the matrimonial hitch. 

Purgatory seems to be a stumbling block for many. The logic of the 
matter seems to me to be very simple. It is merely a midway station between 
Heaven and earth where those who have not suffered sufficiently for the 
sins that they have committed may do a little extra duty, in military 
parlance. Only those who are absolutely clear of sin may enter into the 
presence of the Almighty. Hell would be overpopulated if those guilty of 
lesser sins were consigned to that station, so the Church invented an inter- 
mediate place. Of course if one is guilty of a mortal sin Satan takes 
immediate possession of his soul on its passage from its earthly abode, the 
body. Then too, Purgatory is an excellent means for the Church to save 
old hypocrites who stage last minute repentances. They have not suffered 
for their sins on earth. It is necessary for them to suffer somewhere. 
Purgatory is an excellent place. Masses are said for those in Purgatory in 
order to strengthen them in their suffering there to attain the Ethereal 
Presence. The masses are said at a dollar a piece if the relatives are able to 
pay, but they are said gratuitously upon request. The receipts from such 
masses go to pay off the indebtedness of the local church. No doubt it is 
this practice that gives rise to the assertion of outsiders that the priest 
pretends to have the power to pray sinners out of hell. The Catholic 
Church teaches that once in hell there is no redemption ; prayers will do no 
good. Aside from this, the priest can't pray for any one. One must pray 
for himself. The priest only prays that God grant the sinner strength to 
fight sin and to listen to his feeble prayers. 

Indulgences have been a bone of contention ever since the days of 
Martin Luther. Their sale was a prime means of raising funds in his time, 
but this was done away with by the Counter-Reformation. They are now 
obtained by prayer and good works. If one gains an indulgence, a certain 
amount of temporal punishment due for his sins are remitted. Remission 
for sins committed in the future was never granted. Some zealous prelates, 
however, may have led some credulous communicants to believe to the 

What part does statuary play in Catholic worship: Are they idolaters? 
By no means. I do not know what the ignorant believe, but I was taught 



G. A. Cardwell, Jr. 

A sand-piper flew 
By a great ship's lee 

As it wallowed and plunged 
In the cresting sea. 

"A storm comes out 

Of the North," he said, 
"And I'll nest in the sand 

When you lie dead." 

-•Sf 1 1 )§h- 


along with many others that the statues arc only material reminders, a 
tangible representation used to bring to mind the holy one of whom one- 
is seeking a favor. The saints prayed to are not on an equality with God. 
They are requested to intercede with God, that is to praj to Him, in favor 
of the repentant sinner, and to ask Him to grant strength to the hitter to .-*>m<».- 

carry on in the monumental struggle against sin. The Virgin is not 
considered the equal of her great Son, but she heads the list of saints. She October 

is often requested in prayers to intercede with her Divinely Conceived Child 
in favor of some heart-sick sinner who seeks grace. Is this not natural? Arc 
not concessions on this earth often obtained through the intercession of 
mothers? The beads or rosary that Catholics use are merely counting boards 
upon which they keep track of prayers said in a certain sequence. 

The Church of Rome demands celibacy of its clergy because it believes 
that an unmarried priesthood will devote itself wholly to the work of saving 
souls; that there will be no conflict of family ties and church duties; and 
that there will be no disruption in the congregation, due to the strange 
makeup of the usual preacher's wife. Doubtless these are reasons enough, 
but since celibacy is against a law of nature, it is perhaps against a law of 





Anne Blackwell Payne 

Beloved Priest, to whom I have confessed 
My everlasting wonder of the sea; 
And all things lovely hidden in my breast — 
City and park and poem and symphony; 
What would I do with beauty but for you? 
What would I do with stars, the moon, and night, 
That sweet mysterious change that comes to blue- 
Without your comprehension and delight? 

Absolve me now of this day's added weight, 

A leafless tree that lay against the sky, 

As delicately wrought as an iron gate 

Of filagree, to enter heaven by: 

Take not your ears from me nor fail to share 

The golden burden you and I must bear. 



Mary Sinton Leitch 

Today does not suffice for man's despair. 
Not with past sorrow only, past regret, 
Our hearts are weary and our eyes are wet — 
The present longing or the present care 
Is not enough: forever we must wear 
Weeds of eventual woe. Such fears beset 
The very cup of joy that we forget 
To lift it to our lips and start and stare! 

O vain foreboding! Of those shapes of dread, 

Of doom, that ever threaten, ever thrust 

Gaunt arms across our pathway toward the dawn, 

One late approached me: I who would have fled 

Stood trembling, stricken, when upon the dust 

A shadow fell . . . and touched me . . . and was gone! 

-«f 12}^- 


R. K. Fowler 

{[ Lack iNf; .7 fitting classifica- 
tion for -writers of a certain type, 
Addison Hibbard segregated three 
of his undergraduates and crowned 
them with the title of "The Eternal 
Sophomores." The club, of which 
Fowler was a charter member, 
dubbed Mr. Hibbard the eternal col- 
lege professor, in sweet revenge. 
Mr. Hibbard retaliated by adopting 
a new adjective, "Fowleresqtte," 
which he used to describe plots and 
situations which he could not offi- 
cially endorse. 

lav Center, Virginia, was only the poor 
remnant of a town — a drab, straggling 
hamlet of some three hundred inhab- 
itants. There had been a time when 
people of consequence resided there, when 
Clay Center had tasted its brief draught of 
prosperity. Before the war numerous planta- 
tion owners had made it their bartering place 
and point of contact with the social world. 
Well-filled tobacco warehouses and rolling 
acres of cornland had been the making of the 
community. There had been dancing and gaming, buying and selling in 
sufficient quantities to bring about mild affluence and complete contentment. 
The war had treated Clay Center with unusual harshness; its trade wrecked, 
its families scattered, the town had sunk into dismal obscurity. The planta- 
tions were in ruins now, and the descendants of the men who built them 
were mere bits of trash blown against a fence and left stranded. Many had 
eventually moved on, but a few found the effort too great for them. They 
were cursed with inherent laziness and could only stay where God had thrust 
them, waiting apathetically for an end that approached on limping feet. 

In many broken Southern towns a pathetic feeling of class superiority 
still clings like a cheap perfume. The penurious offspring of the old grandees 
take on the air of lords and ladies merely because their ancestors were once 
somebodies in a deplorable nowhere. But the spineless dwellers of Clay- 
Center had failed to erect even a shaky scaffolding of pride. They were 
content to exist bleakly in a bleak present — with the one stern exception of 
old man Willoughy Cranford. 

The Cranford home stood at the intersection of Main and Oak streets. 
It was a shabby, respectable barn which passed for a mansion in Clay 

-h6{ 13 )9»~ 



Center, and indeed was, in comparison to the hovels that surrounded it. 
Its paint was peeling off, leaving great raw welts, its front steps sagged 
rottenly on the side by the dusty hydrangea bushes and two panes were 
cracked in the fan-shaped atrocity of green glass that spread over the 
door. Still its vast, rambling size was impressive for the same reason that 
a mangy circus lion is impressive ; it hinted at something better than itself 
and stirred a dormant realization of past power. 

Old man Cranford spent most of his time on the wide porch, glaring 
with childish hauteur at the passers and chewing greedily on his moustache. 
In him the stupid pride of caste was incarnate. He despised his fellow 
townsmen with a superficial rancor and secretly gloated over the envious 
glances they threw at the crumbling dignity of his home. There was no 
logical reason why he should set himself above the others, but like a true 
Southerner he had no need of logical reasoning. Pig-like, he wallowed in 
the muck of self-sufficiency, and found in such sullied baths the essence 
of satisfaction. 

The comparative elevation of old man Cranford's fortune was due 
partially to luck and partially to stinginess. His father's home had been 
providentially spared when the Yankees razed the town in the clashing days 
of war. An elderly aunt in Georgia died intestate and her moderate means 
reverted to him. Willoughby Cranford was an accomplished hoarder. No 
spark of the vaunted Southern generosity had ever burned in the dry kiln 
of his breast ; when money came into his hands he clung to it tenaciously, 
reluctant even to spend it on himself. So when his aunt's meager thousands, 
vast wealth in the eyes of Clay Center, became his property he quit his 
profitless brokerage business and turned to a life of leisure. He fastened 
a cold clutch on the inheritance, guarding the exit of each separate dollar, 
meeting the bare needs of existence with an impatient whine. Such methods 
endeared him to no one, but they enabled him to sit idly on his porch with 
a dirty shawl around his shoulders while he meditated on his consummate 
grandeur. The people of Clay Center hated Willoughby Cranford and 
looked up to him. His miserly habits and the fact that he classed his 
neighbors as unworthy inferiors made him tremendously unpopular. How- 
ever, the glamour of an independent income and an authentic ancestral 
mansion was not to be denied. Though in public they derided the old man 
and referred to him as "that stingy old son-of-a-bitch who thinks he's better 
than God Almighty", they grudgingly admitted to themselves that 
Willoughby Cranford was cast in a superior mould. Their treatment of him 

14 )§•■•- 



i, he 


t ^ 




was a queer mixture of disgust and humility. As for old i 
simply ignored the whole crowd, not even deigning to j 
rash individual gave him a hesitant good evening. 

He shared his voluntary seclusion with his niece, Jane — a shy, sensitive 
girl of nineteen. She was the child of an emotional younger brother whose ..<>,,<... 

wife had left in despair after a vain two years effort to rationalize him. 
Relieved of this burden, young Cranford bestowed his tiny daughter upon October 

the sedate Willoughby and casually drank himself to death. Jane was old 1926 

man Cranford's sole gesture of kindliness, and even in her case the kindli- 
ness was selfishly motivated. When he took her he looked into the future 
and saw his declining years lightened by the services of a girl with a heavy 
debt of gratitude to pay off. In some ways Jane had been a great disap- 
pointment to him; despite rigid discipline she still showed traces of her 
father's unbecoming temperament, and though she usually ministered to 
the old man's crabbed wants without complaint she had her moments of 
rebellion. These attacks were quelled when old Willoughby faced her with 
the sorry fact of his generosity and, smouldering inwardly, the girl sank 
back into her role of unpaid servant. Clay Center folks pitied her, but did 
nothing to help her. To them she seemed beyond aid — a weak princess in 
the grip of an ogre. 

This fallacy was due to Jane's introspective nature. Surface weakness 
spread like an opaque film over the turbulency of her thoughts. Her face 
was a dispassionate oval, meekly pretty — a precise duplicate of her mother's 
vapid countenance. Her mind was a seeth of emotion, intense to the point 
of hysteria. She was able to hate bitterly and equally able to conceal the 
angles of her attitude. She hated old Willoughby Cranford. At first the 
realization of hatred shamed her, but as time passed and her uncle's actions 
became more contemptible she felt that her secret animosity was justified. 
Through the indulgence of hatred she had become so hypersensitive that 
the old man's most harmless remarks seemed to convey insults and his every 
inoffensive request was a stern command. She went about her duties, 
silent, unassertive — waiting for a chance to nullify her real and imagined 
wrongs. Her own distorted ideas and her uncle's stupidity had filled her 
with a subtle poison. Her one wish was to make Willoughby Cranford 
suffer — to tear something from him in return for the pleasures she had 
been denied. 

In the rear of the Cranford home old Mammy Linda lived with her 
mulatto son, Joe; they occupied a small white-washed shack adjoining the 

-Hg| 1 5 }^=~ 




main part of the house. Mammy Linda was a heritage — born a Cranford 
slave and philosophically willing to die one. Joe was a slim yellow negro 
cringingly anxious to please. Their servile natures fitted admirably into 
Willoughby Cranford's scheme of things; he, the master — they, the crea- 
tures to crawl at his bidding. Given material of such plasticity the old man 
had shaped for himself a minute image of Southern serfdom. The days of 
slavery were over, but Mammy Linda and Joe were gratifying survivals. 
To Clay Center, the possession of living, breathing black slaves placed the 
stamp of divinity on old Cranford's mottled brow. It was seen as the 
supreme gesture of a man living in an alien age who refuses to break with 
tradition. "What's that old fool want to keep those niggers hanging around 
for?" they asked loudly. (Oh God, wouldn't it be grand to have slaves of 
your own?) Oblivious to all comment, Willoughby Cranford ruled his 
household with vicious serenity. 

One morning Jane was clearing away the breakfast dishes. A ring 
flashed on her finger; old man Cranford's eye grappled with it incompre- 

"Where'd you get that ring, Jane?" 

Jane started, pretended not to hear. 

"Where'd you get that ring?" 

"Ed Grant gave it to me ; we're engaged." She wiped butter from her 
fingers on a soiled apron. 

"You're what?" 

"Engaged — to be married." 

The old man struggled for speech. The boiling syllables within him 
refused to form words. Finally — "Joe." The mulatto hastened in. "Go 
down to the store and tell Mr. Grant that I want to see his son Ed — right 

Jane's pale lips moved rigidly. "What are you going to do, Uncle 

Rage engendered by the first shock was fading; he would soon have 
this matter in hand. "I'm going to break this thing up. Do you think I'd 
let a niece of mine marry the brat of a grocery-store keeper?" 

"But I am going to marry him." 

"And I say you're not." They waited in silence. After several minutes 
Ed Grant entered quietly, a thickset young man with hard eyes. 

"You wanted me, Mr. Cranford?" His impersonal glance covered the 
over-furnished room. 


Willoughby Cranford stared implacably. ( I le docs 
pressed.) "My niece says she intends to marry you." 

The hard eyes caught an appealing look from Jam 
stubbornly on a yellowing spot in the ceiling. "We're \ 
next month." 

"You're wrong. She'll not marry you next month — or any other 
time. Cranfords don't marry below their level." 

"Uncle Will, you have no right — " 

"Keep out of this, Jane. Did you understand me, young man?" 

The words fell stolidly like a memorized fragment of scripture. "We're 
goin' to be married next month." 

Repetition pierced the old man's shield of stern aloofness. His face 
purpled — the hue of a crushed grape. "Who are you, sir: The worthless, 
snivelling son of a grocer — a damned dirty merchant who says 'thank you, 
ma'm' to every nigger wench that buys a bar of soap! And you a filthy lout 
smelling of hog guts. You're common — you're nobody — you're not a damn 
bit better than a dirty field-hand." 

"Uncle Will—" 

He flung more words forth obscenely; they were like flecks of foam 
on his lips. Mad words. "And you want to mate with my niece. She a 
Cranford, an aristocrat — and you the offspring of a country shopkeeper 
and a draggletailed Clay Center slut. Nobody in town fit to kiss her feet, 
and you say you're going to marry her. Not while I live. And she willing 
to do it after all the sacrifices I've made for her — willing to give herself to 
a misbegotten bastard without a cent to his name." 

"Uncle Will — " ( stop him, dear God. Ed's so proud. ) 

"I suppose you want her money. Well, you won't get it. Now get out 
of this house and never show your rotten face around here again." 

A bowl slipped unnoticed from Jane's fingers. She stood stiff against 
the wall, her throat ragged with sobs. The young man came toward her. 
"Give me the ring, Jane." He wrenched it off harshly. 

"You're leaving me, Ed?" 

"Yeh — I didn't know what the Cranfords was. He's old — I won't kill 
him." Ed Grant was gone. 

Old Willoughby Cranford closed his eyes and rubbed his hand across 
them. (Lost my temper. Anyhow, that's settled.) Jane stooped over like 
a rusty automaton and picked the broken china from the floor. 

(Continued oh page 34) 

m much im- 



1 themselves 


) be married 

To David, Singer of Israel 

Mary Sinton Leitch 

King David, you who smote the Moabite 
Like fire, like cloud; — your courts are drifted dust; 
Your sword that flamed against the Ammonite 
Is ruin; lance and shield are less than rust. 

What matter now that like a wind you fell 

On Zion? Abner, Absalom, your son, 

And Saul have passed: the kings of Israel 

Have passed; the earth has claimed them every one. 

Baubles your sword, your sceptre and your crown, 
But where green pastures or still waters sleep 
There is your music, drifting gently down 
And tenderly among the drowsy sheep. 

Or, to the march of mightier syllables, 
Sweep horse and chariot, banners flying free 
From ramparts of the soul's high citadels 
In the triumphal pride of poesy. 

Thus though as king you ceded to the hands 
Of death your crown and sceptre, you remain 
Forever, in the magic moonlit lands 
Of song, anointed liege and sovereign. 

•■<■*§{ 18 }2c~- 



Why the Opposition 

1). Scott Poole 

C Prevented by illness from 

waking a scheduled address before 
the student body of the University, 
Mr. D. Scott Poole, originator of 
the famous "Poole Bill," replied to 
a request for the manuscript of his 
address with the brief presented on 
this page. 

In printing the article, which 
should represent the candid opinions 
of the fundamentalists of this state 
as held by their acknowledged 
leader, there has been no attempt 
at editing. The brief was printed as 

I object to a mode of creation being 
taught in the public schools of this state for 
the following reasons: 

1. Because parents, not the state, have 
the right to teach their children religion. 
Parents are responsible for the religious 
training of their children. 

2. Because Evolution as taught in the 
schools, teaches a mode of creation, of the 
Creator, the Bible, and the philosophy of life, 
may be classed as religion. 

3. Because state schools have no right to teach religion. 

4. Neither the Evolutionist, nor the Christian Fundamentalist has a 
right to teach his peculiar views at public expense. 

5. Because debarring Evolution from the public schools will not in- 
fringe upon the right of any Evolutionist from teaching or writing at his 
own expense. 

This is the reasons for debarring evolution, legally, and now as further 
reasons, it is not fair to taxpayers to defray the expense of teaching their 
own peculiar doctrine, and then by a state supported educational system 
have all their work undone, and that also at their expense. 

It is plain to be seen, that this conflict of view will amount to a menace 
to the welfare of the Commonwealth if allowed to go on. 

From the writings of evolutionists we make the following deductions: 

1. All gods and devils are the creations of human imaginations. 

2. There never has been a divine revelation of God's will to man. 

3. No extant moral code possesses Divine authority. 

4. The Christian's hope of heaven is based on myth. 

5. The fall of man is mvthical. 


6. Conscience is the product of group opinion. 

7. Christianity is wrong in its basic purpose of moral conduct. 

8. Christian teaching as to purity and modesty is wrong, based on 
mysticism and superstition. 

9. Christianity has degraded woman, and retarded progress. 

10. The world has no true code of morals. 

In reviewing these extreme views, you may call them, is it any wonder 
that Church has arisen to oppose such teaching? Scientists say the Bible 
was not given to teach science. I grant this. Neither should scientists 
undertake to teach the Bible. The Bible is supernatural. It must be what 
it is believed to be, the revelation of God's will to man. The Scriptures 
teach what a man is to believe concerning God, and what duties God 
requires of man. 

By following the teaching of the Bible a man does not become a worse 
citizen; but rather, he who follows more closely the teaching of this 
wonderful Book is the highest specimen of the race. The Bible is the only 
source of light that shines across the cold, dark silence and shadow of the 
death. Surely none would extinguish this. 

Prayer for a Young Girl 

Ellen M. Carroll 

Let her twine tender greening vines 
Against a trellised wall, 
She whose hands are brown and slim, 
Whose eyes hold Youth's clear call. 

Let her run races with the wind 
Where foam -plumed breakers roar, 
She whose lips part red and soft, 
Whose feet are swift and sure. 

And let her dwell upon a hill 
That reaches to white stars — ■ 
She whose young soul is crystal pure, 
Whose body, no sin mars. 

-■<{ 20 }>- 

Jackson, Tennessee 

By Sara Haardt 

Magnolia Balm 

If Magnolia Balm hadn't been raised in the country, she wouldn't have 
found her row so hard. Magnolia was shy. She was the seventh of 
Pompey's and Kiziah's yard chil'len — and the blackest. Kiziah was always 
saying that "Gawd only knew whar she come frum." She had the spread 
features and incorrigible kinks of the true Ethiope, while all her sisters and 
brothers were a pale molasses yellow. As they came along, with their big 
notions, they set off for Jackson without the slightest timidity. Jackson 
was a yellow nigger town. A real black was so scarce as to be almost a 
rarity, and the high browns didn't have anything for them to do. 

Kiziah had already sensed the feeling when Magnolia was born. "We 
got tuh git a real purty name fur her," she murmured to old Hagar, who 
had come in "to see her thru." "Is yuh evah heard tell uv Lydia Pinkham 
and Magnolia Balmr" 

"Sho' I is!" answered Hagar. "Whar yuh think 1 bin, honey: I laks 
Magnolia Balm th' bes'. Hit's got sech a pure soun' — " 

"Is she black ez ole Mose, Hagar r" 

"Now don't yuh fret 'bout havin' no black chile, honey. She may be 
wu'th all them yallar niggers put together. . . " 

But Kiziah did fret. For when Magnolia began to feel her growing- 
pains, she had notions like all the rest. Nothing would do her but she must 
go to Jackson, too. She took to slipping off on lonely errands to the store, 
and sometimes when Kiziah spoke to her, she was sunk in such a dream it 
was like trying to wake the dead. 

So one April morning, when Pompey drove in to the seed store, 
Magnolia packed along with him. Kiziah had sent word to Martha, her 
eldest daughter, and she met them on the outskirts of Belle Air. Martha 
was the toniest one of Kiziah's children. She worked in a beauty parlor 
on Lafayette avenue, where all the young society ladies had their hair 
shampooed, and she had acquired quite an air. 


"Ah spoke to mah landlady about a room, Magnolia," she trilled in 
her throaty voice, "but she hasn't a vacancy just at present. Ah found a 
little place on Helen street — " 

In the afternoon, after Magnolia had taken her clothes out of the bag 

..€>,„<,.. that was to go back to Pompey, they walked around to Martha's place. 

It was a good piece away, on the finest street in Belle Air. Martha, very 

October proudly, said that white folks had lived in it not so long ago. 

in? a "Ah'm goin' to be puffectly frank with you, Magnolia," she continued 

airily. "A few of the giris is dropping in this evening and Ah'm introducin' 

you as mah cousin. Ah wouldn't have nobody speak ill of us — and you is 

so dahk!" 

Magnolia nodded obediently. In Martha's grand room, with the lace 
curtains and graphophone, she sat stiffly erect, a hard lump in her throat 
as the girls fluttered in. They were all bright and stylish like Martha, 
powdered and rouged until the room grew close with a sickish perfume. 
Their hair was crisply black, but trained to lay in oily waves ; their nails 
were rouged pink and shiny; and their feet were squeezed in narrow, 
high-heeled slippers. How fine they talked and rolled their r's! When 
Martha passed the refreshments, they nibbled their cakes, and then smoked 
their cigarettes as daintily as white ladies! 

One of the girls started the graphophone and danced a fancy step around 
the edge of the carpet on the polished floor. The girls applauded, and 
Magnolia smiled, but the lump in her throat had grown so big she could 
scarcely speak. Martha had leaned back in her chair to enjoy her smoke 
and display the new fawn-colored stockings on her pretty legs, and so she 
didn't see her when she slipped out of the room. 

"Drink o' watah," she whispered to the girl nearest the door who 
raised her eyebrows. 

Pompey's wagon was standing in front of the house on Helen street. 
He was waiting on the porch. "Whar is th' grip?" he muttered. "I 'low 
tuh be gittin' on now hit's sundown." 

"I'll fotch hit fur yuh," Magnolia answered. "I done changed my 
min'. I's goin' back wid yuh." 

"Wal, gal," Pompey consoled her, as they swung out on the darkening 
road, "I's mighty glad to heah hit. Yore ma's alluz had a partickler 
leanin' fur yuh." 

Magnolia nodded dumbly. After a while she crawled over in the back 
of the wagon and dropped down on the feed sacks. The night air was cool 

-4 22 }>- 


and sweet, a bird was calling across the fresh fields and the plum thickets The 

lay in a living whiteness all about. The lump in her throat was gone, but CAROLINA 

past Catoma creek Pompey fell to singing in his melodious voice of MAGAZINE 

"Heaben, Heaben," and suddenly there it was back again right over her 

heart. This time it didn't go away, and as »"he road grew darker, she got .. t>li<3 .. 

to her knees and swayed back and forth . . . back and forth . . . like old 

Hagar used to do with the toothache. October 

A Disciple of Darwin 

People said that when Archie Peters came to die he would call on God 
as loudly as any other sinner. There was Bob Ingersoll: he was an atheist 
for you! Archie had moved to Jackson from Lachapoka with the idea of 
giving up his job on the road and making a home for his wife and three 
growing boys. It was an ambitious move, but, in the inexplicable ways of 
Providence, everything seemed to go badly from then on: the first Summer 
his eldest and youngest boys were stricken with typhoid malaria, and died 
before the big doctor from the East could reach them; and the following 
Spring, Francis, the remaining boy — the pride of his heart — stuck a nail in 
his foot and developed lockjaw. The doctors in Jackson in those day didn't 
call it tetanus or know the new serums to give for it. 

During the crisis, when the boy lay so sick, Archie slipped out of the 
house to the open fields to pray. He had always been a God-fearing man, 
and now, with the Spring air so softly perfumed, the miracle of green buds 
about him, he dropped on his knees and prayed God that if He would spare 
his son, he would serve Him to the end of his days. The sun was setting 
when he turned back, the evening was filled with a kind of peace, but they 
had already started a search for him. The boy was dead. 

So, as years passed, Archie Peters became a familiar figure about the 
drug-store, where the young men gathered to exchange talk of the universe. 
He was a tall, handsome man, with a pair of eyes like live coals in his 
head, and when he gesticulated with his strong hands, an indefinable 
spell fell over his audience. His was a quiet sort of atheism — a slurring 
gesture, a teasing laugh up the sleeve. No man ever had the story of his 
falling out with God from his lips: he was too much of an artist for that! 
Instead, he encouraged his listeners to express their own views, and when 
they had had their fling, he quietly led them aside and told them of his 
dream that they should one day become great physicians. It was a queer 
Providence that turned everything he touched to money, so that he could 
help them. , f „_ ,., 

In after years, when they settled in the East to practise, they often 

visited Jackson to see him. The Scopes' trial was going in the Summer 

that young Edward Marshall returned, and people were saying it was no 

wonder Archie Peters was taken ill so suddenly, when he had declared he 

■.€>„<>.. was for Darwin. The doctors had said there was no hope for him, and he 

would be calling on the Lord! 

October Young Marshall was ushered into the sick-room late one Friday eve- 

1926 ning. The light was dim, and he was hidden in the shadows as he 

watched the older man blinking with a kind of fascination at the purplish 

blots on his nails. He looked up at last with gleaming eyes. 

"Well . . . it's coming!" 

Edward Marshall shook his head, and turned away to hide the guilty 
look in his eyes. He had the feeling he had never had before — that Archie 
Peter's gesture was costing him something . . . 

"Leave him be! Fear of death will punish him as sure as there's a 
Lord in Heaven — " 

"He will laugh on the other side of his mouth one of these days!" 

"He'll change his tune ..." 

"It isn't true!" young Marshall argued to himself. But his fingers 
trembled as he filled the barrel of the hypodermic needle. In the instant 
between the pricking of the steel and the drooping of Archie Peters' eye- 
lids, he knew himself a traitor: in losing his faith in the old man, he had lost 
faith in himself. All the yearnings, the vaunts of his proud youth were 
gone forever. Yet, as years went by, he grew to be proud of being a sober 
and responsible citizen. Nobody ever took him for an atheist! 

Miss Maybelle Galbreath 

Maybelle Galbreath was a staunch feminist before she married Tom 
Willard. At club meetings she was always the first to rise and quote 
Mary Wollstonecraft or Charlotte Perkins Oilman or Alice Paul, the 
blush rose on her little poke bonnet gesticulating with fervor. "How 
much more respectable is the woman who earns her own bread by fulfilling 
any duty, than the most accomplished beauty!" she would chant in her 
sweet voice. Once, when the president of the State Federation called an 
important meeting, she interrupted her in the sepulchral tones of Olive 
Schreiner, "We claim all labor for our province. Give us labor and the 
training which fits for labor! We demand this not for ourselves, but for the 
race. ..." 

-«f 24 \>- 


It was a dramatic moment. The ladies whispered and nudged one The 

another and the president was plainly outwitted until she saw who May- CAROLINA 
belle was. Maybelle was an accomplished beauty herself — in more ways MAGAZINE 
than one — so she could afford to say such things. Her skin had the texture 
of panne velvet, her hair was a natural gold and she had the most adorable ..Am*,.. 

bow mouth. It was part of the education of the young men in Jackson to 
fall in love with her. When she pleaded, "Woman must not be dependent October 

on her husband's bounty for her subsistence, for how can a being be gener- 
ous who has nothing of her own . . . or virtuous, who is not freer" they 
were tempted to kiss her. The words were deliciously provocative on her 
red lips. 

For a time, after she married Tom Willard, she insisted upon being 
introduced as Miss Maybelle Galbreath, but Jackson wasn't educated up to 
it. Embarrassing questions caused her to blush as hotly as if she were 
guilty of a real breach. Tom guffawed loudly when the confusion went to 
even greater lengths and tradespeople mistook her for his daughter. 

"Well, not yet," he would chuckle, "but you never can tell! You see, 
my wife belongs to a protective order called the Lucy Stone League." 

Tom was a good-natured fool, but he was hopelessly confounded when 
Maybelle declared that she was going to get a job and maintain separate 
quarters like Fannie Hurst was doing. "We'll still have regular engage- 
ments with each other," she explained, her cheeks a fiery pink. "Only they 
will be on a much more dignified plane. We'll really be in a position to 
see the best side of each other then — " 

"But what's the idea?" Tom complained. "I thought people married 
to have a home." 

"It's just that we couldn't express our personalities and keep our self- 
respect . . . and live as intimately, dear. We mustn't — either of us — 
be subjected to one another in law or in custom and so we must have an 
equal share in freedom and responsibilities." 

"Well, I don't see how you can eat your cake and have it, too," Tom 
replied in an injured voice. "I don't get your figurin'. Still, it's your 
say . . ." 

Maybelle started to work with the Dixie Pine Lumber Company the 
next Monday morning as file clerk, and he moved back into his old 
bachelor apartment at the club. They were not to meet until the following 
Sunday night. 

(Continued on fage 3 6) 

-4 25 }>■- 

The Bridal Birch 

Archibald Rutledge 

On angel wings of light, 

Past man's devising, 

In the mystic wood arising 

A silver spirit gleams 

With silvery dreams — 

Her argent body bright, 

Shimmering in night — 

In the dewy moonlight fair, 

With streaming hair, 

And cool and lustrous body bare. 

So in the dark and dew, 

When Adam came to woo, 

Might Eve have stood, 

Bridal and beautiful, 

A chalice with love's cordial brimming full, 
In Eden's solitude, 
Trembling all over, 
Waiting her lover. 

Waiting some sweetheart now 

My birch-tree stands, 

Stars burning on her brow; 

With silvery hands 

And wild still hair alight, 

And argent body bright, 

In the sweet secret wood a-gleaming, 

Her virgin heart a-dreaming, 

Its flower opening wide, 

A spirit and a bride — 

Trembling, joyous, dumb 

Until Love come. 

-•§( 26 }3> — 

Excerpts from a review of President W. L. Poteat's book, Can a Man 
Be a Christian Today, appearing in The Baptist Messenger, official organ 
of the Baptist General Convention of Oklahoma: 

We have nothing but kindness in our heart for Doctor Poteat, 

the man, but we regard his doctrine and method of advocating it, as one 
of the most subtle, blighting and damning influences among Southern 

What he says, in conjunction with what he has left unsaid, makes 

the book extremely dangerous 

A faithful reader of the Charlotte Observer and an apparently casual 
reader of the American Mercury, which is paradoxical in itself, clipped 
Gerald Johnson's remarks about the former publication from his article, 
"Journalism Below the Potomac" appearing in the September issue of the 
Mercury, and sent the clipping to the One Minute Editor of the Observer. 
She published it under the caption, "Observer Gets High Praise." 

A student interested in heraldry called to our attention the fact that 
the scutcheon of our very moral University is marred by a bar sinister. 
(See Webster.) Too, this bar separates the words "Eight" and "Liberty". 
The inference, shocking as it must be to this state where morals are morals 
and children must have a complete set of parents, is that the University 
is the child of light and liberty, but born out of Holy Wedlock. It might 
be said that the union of light and liberty is not recognized as legal in these 
parts, and that the University is an evil influence because its continued exist- 
ence as a respectable institution may lead to free love, and the downfall of 
all morals. 

-H* 27 »H- 




After suffering from extreme nausea following the wildly heralded 
activities of the "Committee of 100," Charlotte, N. C, the Queen City of 
the South and the second greatest church-going city of the world, found 
herself faced with a problem of another color recently. The Black Christ, 
alias the "Faith-healer," alias Bishop Grace, onetime patent medicine ven- 
dor and of various religions, set up his tent in the city's midst and com- 
menced the saving of dusky souls to the tune of three dollars per head, 
come one — come all. 

The Black Christ's monetary activities became so alarming, and house 
servants began to lose so much sleep that all question of souls was thrown 
to the winds and the city fathers harkened to a plea from less inspired 
pulpit brokers to command Bishop Grace to fold his tent and walk. The 
Bishop secured an injunction staying the action of the commissioners, and 
at present writing Charlotte is unable to rind a law to eject him. And in 
the meantime the Bishop is baptizing, at three dollars each, from six 
hundred to a thousand souls at each immersion. 


Recently two students, a Junior and a Senior, were expelled from this 
University for hazing some of the new arrivals. The newspaper account 
of the affair which emanated from our efficient News Bureau coyly stated 
that the offenders had pulled up the Freshmen's pants and marched them 
around the campus. To our certain knowledge organized bands of Sopho- 
mores have made marauding excursions through the Quadrangle and 
Triangle on several occasions. These gentlemen had blood in their eyes 
and paddles in their hands, and in the use of these paddles they practiced 
little restraint. The night was made horrible by warbled laundry lists 
frequently interrupted by the impact of wood on flesh. In Smith and Carr 
the downy new-comers were forced to undergo much embarrassing physical 
discomfort. A neophyte in a self-help dormitory must prove his manhood. 
Yet with such flagrant evasions of the hazing rule taking place the authori- 
ties seized upon a couple of upper classmen who indulged their love of 
sport in the most harmless way possible. Perhaps to their sensitive souls 
a bared leg is more to be condemned that a bruised posterior. Perhaps to 
them moral anguish is superior to bodily pain. Or, if a final perhaps is 
permissible, the alarming influx of new co-eds may have something to do 
with their Comstockian attitude toward nuditv of the male nether limb. 

~^1{ 28 }^°- 


irred himself with 



the hands of the 


1 1; 

had his first issue 
ndbook," and con- 


An Appeal for Copy 

With the launching of Volume 57 of the Carolina Magazine the 
editors also waft into the breeze an appeal for copy. Poetry, short stories, 
articles of a pertinent nature, and criticisms will be welcomed from anyone 
interested in the struggle of The Magazine to lift its head into the world of 
literature. Fundamentalists, atheists, Democrats, Republicans, all races, 
colors, and religions are invited to contribute by the editors, whose highest 
desire is to make The Magazine worth reading, and whose hrst considera- 
tion of manuscripts will be from this angle. 

-nj( 29 )|- 


Killian Barwick, a promising undergraduate, ha 
exemplary zeal and placed a humorous publicatic 
student body long before the editor of the Bucca 
planned. Mis effort is entitled " MO, the Freshmai 
tains many scintillating gems of wit. 

Item one: (from a paragraph on fraternities) "Be sure to watch your 
step and by all means don't bind yourself to a fraternity whose members 
drink and whose moral code is low." In other words, Mr. Barwick is advis- 
ing the Freshmen to steer clear of all fraternal entanglements. 1926 

Item two: ( from a paragraph on politics) "The outcome ol the election 
last spring resulted in the election of some undeserving men largely because 
the facts were misrepresented by several fraternities to the unknowing 
freshmen who constituted nearly one-half of the student body." The humor 
of this is obvious to anyone who was on the Hill last spring. If his statement 
is true — then Swain Mall is a fraternity. 

Item three: (from a paragraph on the Carolina Spirit) "It is only a 
matter of a few days now until you too will be numbered among the elect — 
a Carolina Student. The day is near when a new and greater spirit will 
grip you body and soul." It is a relief to be classed with the elect after the 
Legislature has so consistently classed us with the damned. 'Editor's Note: 
In the second sentence grip is probably a printer's error for gripe. 


book bazaar 

More 'Gusto! 

Count Bruga. By Ben Hecht. Boni & Liveright, New York, 1926. pp.319. $2. 

This most recent Hechtic opus is a comic satire, being a study of the vulgar and 
sentimental conduct of a member of the Washington Square intelligentsia. It includes 
a profound psychological study of a bogus count, a superficial study of police methods, 
a mastery, a romance, and an assortment of denouements. To the sophisticated reader 
it will appear as a splendid achievement in unrealism and humor, somewhat resem- 
bling the best work of Henry Fielding. To the Victorian it will reveal the ultimate 
in released inhibitions. 

The technique employed by Mr. Hecht in achieving his humorous effects has 
been characterized by Henri Bergson and is used with effect by Stephen Leacock. It 
consists merely in the serious treatment of the essentially unimportant. 

"He was apparently inexhaustible, unquenchable, and invulnerable. Nobody had 
ever beheld him in moments of languor. He consumed liquor in quantities which 
became legendary. He had been known to cat up, before be in 12; caught, a buffet 
supper prepared for ten guests. And he had been pursued down the street by horrified 
guests in quest of their evening wraps, hats, rubbers and umbrellas which Jules, 
with a sudden passion of aggrandizement or perhaps revenge, had snatched from 
the vestibule on being ejected." 

The occasion for the above and other similar passages is an absorbing story 
which might have elicited the interest of the most serious minded writer of the day. 
Written as a romance the tale would still receive attention. Written in its present 
style it is a masterpiece of its class. 

English Bagby 

Exit Chivalry 

The Romantic Comedians. By Ellen Glasgow. Doubleday, Page and Co. $2.50. 
Southern chivalry, southern ideals and southern sanctimoniousness, those hoary 
idols of American fiction, have fallen into the hands of an accomplished iconoclast. 
Ellen Glasgow has torn them to pieces with none too gentle fingers and scattered the 
ludicrous fragments throughout the pages of her latest novel. Her methods of dis- 
section range from delicate insinuation to hearty sarcasm, and they are all supremely 

4 30^ 

effective S<, deftly is the theme handled that the realization that one is chuckling The 

delightedly at things once sacred and revered comes with a startling impact. After CAROLINA 

the first chuckle the damage is irrevocably done; never again will the bewhiskered 

gentlemen and bedeviled virgins of the magnolia blossom school he anything but MAGAZINE 

preposterous. Miss Glasgow has dealt the roup <lr grarc to a decrepit literary survival, 

and in doing so has turned out an excellent hook, full of sparkle and charm. ..<>*<>.. 

The story opens on a quietly satirical note and maintains the tempo until the 
closing scene. Judge Honeywell has lost his devoted wife after thirty-seven dull, , 7 

eventless years of marital bliss. The sorrow he knows he should feel is unable to cope 
with the urge of spring in his ancient veins. After a period of senile philandering l )-<> 

he marries a girl of twenty-three, thinking with the eternal conceit of the male that 
it is his personality rather than his wealth which caused her to surrender. The 
calamitous match drags on, weakens and collapses when the girl attracts a lover of 
her own age and elopes with him. 

Judge Honeywell is the heart of the hook; no character of recent times can 
approach him in the realm of sedate caricature. His attitude toward women, his 
superannuated vanity, his Victorian abhorrence of the physical in conversation, his 
gullibility and his labored aping of contemporary manners fit into a resplendant 
mosaic of ineffectual stupidity. The unhappy dissolution of the old beau's marriage 
mingles pathos with an overtone of sardonic humor. Some of Miss Glasgow's 
phrases are to be forever treasured. She speaks of a middle aged lady "who had a 
small mind, but knew it thoroughly." The Judge's treatment of the opposite sex 
is referred to as "a chivalrous interpretation of biology." Then there is the remarka- 
ble philosophy of his twin sister who has brazenly hurled four husbands and a score 
of lovers through the glass wall of convention and yet feels no twinge of conscience. 
With her every trenchant statement the Spirit of the South slinks farther into the 

r. k. Fowier- 
Yoiith— and a Dictionary 

The Sunken Garden. By Nathalia Crane. Thomas Seltzer, Publisher. New 
York. 1926. 259 pp. $2.50. 

Miss Crane, the fourteen year old poetess of Brooklyn, shifts her media to 
prose. The Sunken Garden, billed as a phantasy, is her first effort along this line. 
The plot contains the usual South Sea isle, uninhabited save for two castaways, male 
and female, of course. The usual love affair blossoms, but here the book's similarity 
to others of the same theme ends. To say that the book is unusual is putting things 
mildly. It is written in language as tropic and bizarre as the setting. Nothing is left 
to the imagination. Every variety of bird, tree, moth, weed, and most of the rock 
outcroppings are described in the best of technical manners. 

The authoress seems to feel that calling the story a phantasy is not enough. So 
she gives the island a definite geographical location, the girl and boy perfect alibis 
for being present, and spends much time in establishing the noble birth of both. 





The book should certainly be read, if the reader can overcome the annoying 
recurrence of two word alliterations, because it was written by a fourteen year old 
girl, because once the Encyclopedia Britannica verbiage is mastered the book becomes 
very readable, with passages of much beauty, and because there is nothing like it to 
increase one's vocabulary. 

However, Miss Crane will surely regret such an ostentatious show of knowledge 
and vocabulary when she is older. ./. P. Pretlow 

Freudian Chastity 

The Two Virginities. By Herbert S. Gorman. Macaulav. $2. 

In Two Virginities Mr. Gorman offers a strikingly satisfying novel based on the 
theory that a person can go through any number of sordid experiences of a physical 
nature and still retain a form of spiritual virginity untouched by the filth of his 
actions. The idea, though interesting, fails to offer a sense of conviction. John 
Gaul, the male possessor ot that evanescent something which assures an unsullied soul, 
is serenely unfaithful to his wife, keeps a mistress and frequents negro bawdy 
houses, while Lalage Trent, his feminine counterpart, spends most of her time in a 
state of suspended morality. When the time comes to prove the depth of their inner 
virginity, they enter into an illicit relationship and leave the country. 

However, the true worth of Mr. Gorman's work does not depend upon its 
somewhat doubtful philosophy. It has descriptive passages of almost devastating 
insight and others which both impress and frighten because of their brutal force. 
The chapter detailing a sensitive man's reaction to a cheap burlesque show skillfully 
combines disgust with sensuous appeal. The scene in the negro brothel where a slim 
mulatto girl squats on the floor and croons Frankie and Johnny has an eerie charm. 
The culmination of his power comes with a callously photographic picture of a bull 
fight. Seldom is a bit of writing more horrible, more realistic or more splendid. 

The minor characters in the novel are admirably done. One may finish reading 
and soon have only a hazy recollection of John Gaul and Lalage Trent. They are 
at best but vague creatures, half-hidden under the burden of perverted idealism 
which the author has forced them to carry. But such people as the Whiteheads and 
the Wadsleys are hard to forget. Charles Whitehead, that cold, inhuman automaton 
whose movements are guided by long-dead ancestors, and his sister Emma, harboring 
wildly fanatical thoughts in her cramped brain. Olive Wadsley, an unscrupulous 
mass of white flesh made only for passion and its gratification. Her miserable hus- 
band Henry who is pathetically grateful for a chance to comb her dog's hair. These 
people live. 

Mr. Gorman is decidedly a modernist and has borrowed here and there from 
the modernists' bag of tricks. Limited use is made of Joyce's internal monologue, 
and Sherwood Anderson's recurring idea of escape from some nebulous and undefined 
fate enters into the plot. He is at his best when no influence is discernible, his own 
talent being sufficient to hold the attention of any reader. His brief moments of 
weakness are negligible when offset by the intense strength that pervades most of 
his work. R. A". Fowler 

-<{ 32 >h- 

Heck lino the Hi 11- Billy The 


Teeftallow. By T. S. Stribling. 4-05 pp. New York: Doubleday, Page & 

Company. $2. ^ MAGAZINE 

Doubtless there- will always be the razorback hogs, the "holler,", and the 
"chilluns". But why must such local color be applied with the six-inch brush of the -<w... 

house-painter? Especially when such a medium is furthered by the frequent use of 
humorous anecdote (either hitter or ironic), as this: October 

One of the men began telling a very old joke about how the train had chased a 
man along the track, how the engineer had shouted, "Get off 1 " and the farmer had 
yelled, "If I get off into the ploughed ground, you fellers will ketch me an' run 
over me! " 

To be serious. Mr. Stribling, himself a native of Chattanooga, draws a picture 
of the rough Tennessee hill folk that is a nightmare of injustice, violence and 
pharisaism, damned rather than redeemed by a religion to which only the darker side 
of the revelation seems to have been vouchsafed. His protagonist, Abner Teeftallow, 
is erotic and superstitious]} - self-righteous by turns, and only blunders through to 
final happiness at the expense of the one man who has dared to set his face against 
the malignity of the herd. 

The author's sardonic sympathy is too much in line with current metropolitan 
feeling, where ozark-hill-billy-southcrn-mountaineer hooks are concerned, not to he 
a popular success. But he writes only with poetic intensity; not epic po' 

/. O. Marshall 

Rah! Rah! 

Co-ed. By Olive Deane Hormel. .US pages. Charles Scribner's Sons. $2. 

Another title is added to the plethora of college novels which have heen the 
fad for the past few years. But it may claim for its rahon d'etre the fact that it 
presents the other and hitherto neglected side of our bi-sexual system of education. 
This story purports to be the experiences of Co-Edna in a typical mid-western state 
university, probably Illinois or Indiana, and as such it oilers interesting possibilities, 
which it seems to me, the author has failed to make use of. As to the faithfulness of 
the portrayal of this phase of college life I cannot judge, as I have not had that 
charming experience of being a co-ed in a mid-western university. There are 
passages, however, which baffle the credulity of an "impressionist who has never been 
there." The book is patterned after "The Plastic Age", but it lacks the merits even 
of that best seller. Though a total failure as a novel, it yet presents some aspects 
of co-educational life which are, to quote Mr. Mutt, "interesting if true." 

College novels are an esoteric sort of thing, and one wonders at their vogue; 
to the college man they are a dull picture of himself and to the uninitiated they are 
largely unintelligible. After reading a few of them one is impressed with the 
dreadful monotony and standardization of the "rah rah" age in whatever type of 
college or section of the country. Yet despite this fact I believe there are aspects of 
this exotic life which are worth recording and the field is ripe for a true and worth- 
while college novel. Paul Olive 

-■<{ 33 }§*<- 




Books Received and Books to be Reviewed 

Celia. By Amclic Rives. Stokes. 307 pp. $2. 

Campaign Against the British. By Mrs. Dunbar Row- 

Thf. Queerness 
Andrew Jacksoi 

land. MacMillan. New York. 424 pp. $3.50, 
If Today Have No Tomorrow. By Olive Gilbreath. Button's. 369 pp. $2. 
The Great Valley. By Mary Johnston. Little, Brown and Co. Boston. 317 

Dusk of Day. By Catherine Clark. Thomas Seltzer. Ne 
The Stranger Within The Gates. By C. Nina Boyle 
York. 298 pp. $2. 

• York. 331 pp. $2. 
Thomas Seltzer. Ne\ 



The old man was vaguely embarrassed by her grief. "Don't worry over 
that, Jane. You'll soon see that I did right. There's nobody in this town 
fit for a Cranford to take up with." 

The girl crouched as if beaten. An unctuous clearing of the throat. 
"After all, my dear, you owe me something. I gladly took you in and 
treated you like a daughter, gave you a good home — so shouldn't you 
have some respect for my wishes: Just think, you might have had a child 
by him and destroyed the purity of the Cranford blood. I acted for the 
best. Now go to your room and try to get over this foolishness." 


Jane parted the frilled curtains of her window. Her tears were gone 
now, her face an expressionless mask. She could see the the zigzag burnt- 
orange ruttiness of Oak street, the squat shape of a Ford standing at the 
curb, the projecting eaves of the store on the corner. (Ed's store — but 
he's gone. He'll pass me on the street, not speaking. It hurts, God. ) She 
could see a splayed, quicksilver puddle on the pavement, two children 
gravely sailing twig boats. (I might have had a child by him. He bruised 
me — my uncle. What can I do to bruise him worse? ) Mammy Linda was 
washing clothes in the back yard; Joe stood waiting to hang them, his lithe 
body drooping languidly. She sang, "washed in the blood of the lamb." 
(Mammy Linda, Joe and me — slaves. I'm no better. I belong there.) 

-<{ 34 }»~- 

/.ily pegged 

11, r 

i of an idea 


That damn 


With the passing of minutes Mammy Linda left and Joe ] 
up the clothes. Jane watched him — her fellow slave. The lar 
squirmed in her mind. (Hurt Uncle Will; twist his soul. 
Cranford pride.) She pushed the heavy blinds apart. 

"Joe." ..*.,«,.. 

The mulatto bobbed respectfully. "Yes, Miss Jane:" 

"Come up here — I need you." October 

His tread sounded hollow on the stairs. ( Might have had a child. ) He ,, y w 

stood in the doorway, a carven yellow figure — immobile. ( Purity of the 
Cranford blood.) "You want me, ma'm?" 

Jane's words came soft through clenched teeth. "You told me you'd 
like to leave here and get a job in Richmond, Joe." 

"Sho' would, but — " 

"I have some money saved up. It's yours if you help me." 

Joy rayed in the negro's face. "Anything, Miss Jane — just anything." 

She spoke rapidly. Joe's eyes rolled in their sockets, he drew back 
terrified. "I-I couldn't." 

"But you must." (My uncle — it will kill him.) "You've got to." 

The mulatto hesitated. (A white girl — a pretty white girl. ) He shuffled 
his feet and stole a furtive, sidelong glance at Jane's body. "You guarantee 
I git away safe to Richmond?" 


"All right, Miss Jane." 

She cautiously reclosed the blinds. (Goodbye, Ed. Slaves — together.) 
Her feet dragged through the bristling carpet. 

The Cover 

The cover for Volume 57 of The Carolina Magazine was designed 
and executed by Anthony B. J. Martin, an alumnus of the University. 
Martin was the first Art Editor of The Carolina Buccaneer, and has in the 
past few weeks been added to the staff of The Alumni Review in the 
capacity of Art Director. Both The Alumni Review and the new Music 
Supervisors Journal will bear covers which were drawn this year by the 
young artist, who plans to go to New York to study work of this type in the 
near future. 

-■<{ 35 )g*- 


' rhe yackson, ^Tennessee 

CAROLINA (Continued from page 25) 


Late Wednesday evening Maybelle was taken mysteriously ill. The 

girls in the office said she had been acting funny all day. To begin with, 

old Mr. Watlington had made a slurring remark about her coming in late 

, and she could scarcely see the reading file for the tears dimming her eyes. 

Then just at twelve o'clock, he had given her an important order number 

to check up and she had spent her whole lunch hour looking for it. Her 

back was tired, the balls of her feet ached and her eyes burned. 

She went into the smelly rest-room and lay down on the straw mattress 
of the day-bed, but she couldn't close her eyes in peace. Dark, bitter 
questions flashed through her mind. The girls in the office — -she herself — 
saw nothing beautiful or exhilarating in the filing of papers or the constant 
pounding of typewriters. They were there because they had to live. 
If they ever had a chance to marry, they frankly said it would be goodbye 
for them! What was the difference? You could free women from the 
rule of men only to make them greater slaves to the machines of industry. 
Give them marriage every time. . . . 

Maybelle dragged back to her desk somehow, but it was plain that her 
mind was not on what she was doing. She pulled one bone after another, 
and when five-thirty came at last, she must have turned her ankle in the 
mad rush for the cloak room, for one of the girls found her behind the 
door in a little heap. 

"Pl-please call m my husband," she sobbed before she crumpled into 
her mysterious faint. 

Tom raced over from the club, and carried her out to the car in his 
arms. "No, you needn't expect her back," he told old Mr. Watlington with 
some indignation. "She isn't strong enough for this kind of drudgery!" 


Anita Pruitt had never had many beaux before Willie Perry fell in love 
with her. But Willie was the kind of jellybean who raved about his love 
affairs to everybody. He was so tight and egotistical no girl ever really fell 
for him, and when he bragged about his "Sugar" or his "Precious", the 
jellybeans started rushing her just to have a little fun. They had been 
completely captivated by Anita. She was slender and dainty — the more 
demure flapper — with soft, golden ringlets all over her head and big, 

-«Bf 36 )8*- 

dreamy eyes. She had a line, of course, but she was only gently 
flattering. "Precious" was the very name for her. 

Willie was beside himself with pride and jealousy. "That's < 
who can have me," he would swagger, " — none of these two-tim: 
for mine'" 

"Aw, Willie, Precious has stood you up already! Tell me Joe Burns 
is heavy man out there now. What it takes to give these jellies a lit, she 
holds it. . . . " 

Willie pulled his most indifferent stall, but his voice was too shrill and 
he flushed darkly. "I like for Precious to kid these heavy daters along. 
I haven't seen the man yet who could beat my time!" 

There was something pathetic about Willie's bluff, when Precious was 
so obviously using him for a good thing. She knew just how to work him — 
just when to blush and drop her long lashes or smile up at him coylv. He 
took her little presents — "surprises" — and her pretty exclamations thrilled 
him so he bought her a diamond wrist watch and a prize airedale puppy and 
a little traveling bag with real ivory fittings. One Saturday evening, when 
the jellybeans were congregated in front of the Owl Drug Store, Willie 
flashed by in a new blue roadster, a dozen green and ruby lights ablaze. 

"S'long! " he waved brightly. "See you in the funny papers. . ." 

"What the—" 

Some one was snuggled in beside him — Precious! — and in another hour 
the news was all over town: Precious had married him and they had 
started to Asheville on their honeymoon! He had bought her the biggest 
diamond ring in Armiger's jewelry store. Precious had seemed happy, 
the clerks reported, and yet a bit peaked for so daring a bride. She had 
perked up, though, as the car swept out of Jackson. Cootie Dreer had 
caught a last glimpse of them speeding past Avondale, and she had leaned 
out of the car and waved a gay farewell to him. 

They were still burning the wind fifty miles farther when Tod Meri- 
weather saw them shoot over the hill toward Ensley. It was pitch night, 
and Tod said the car made a pretty sight as it roared up the incline. He 
stood in the road and listened to the perfect hum of the engine, like a great 
aeroplane soaring above the earth, his breath suspended as it suddenly 
skipped . . . choked . . . stopped. Silence, and then a thin scream, in a 
woman's voice through the dark. . . . 

One of the headlights was burning dimly, and Tod laid Willie in the 
pool of light it made on the ground. "He never knew what hit him," he 












afterwards declared to the coroner at Ensley. a He was dead before the 
engine turned over." 

It was several minutes before he found Precious half-buried in a pile 
of leaves at the side of the road. She hadn't a scratch on her — just shaken 
up a bit, and she was silent in a way that frightened Tod until the car 
arrived to take her back to Jackson. Then she pulled out her little vanity 
case and found that the mirror was broken. 

"Oh," she sobbed pathetically, "s-seven years b-bad luck!" 

After she had gone Tod lingered on the road with the garagemen, 
clearing up the wreck. "The little lady showed her good sense when she 
jumped onto them leaves," the boss of the gang, an oldish man, mumbled. 

"Jumped. . . " Tod echoed incredulously. 

"She never could hev landed in thet bed o' leaves from where thet 
car hit," he continued darkly. "Hey, you Jerry, give me a hand here! 
Oh . . . there's always more than one funny thing about these wrecks. 
Now what I ast you, sir, is what made her jump! " 

Precious stayed on in Jackson while Willie's affairs were being 
straightened out, the insurance money transferred to her name. It seemed 
that Willie had accumulated quite a nice pile, with his savings accounts and 
all: Precious had played in luck, after all. She could have a regular 
splurge in Jackson on thirty thousand dollars! 

She had stayed in, pale but sweetly cordial to her callers, during the 
rainy days that followed Willie's death. She was vague about her plans. 
"It's all so sudden," she would sigh sadly. "I-I had just thought I'd like 
to get away . . . somewhere. ..." 

For a week it continued to rain, and then one bright morning Joe Burns 
met her driving out of the garage in the blue roadster. 

"Look'n mighty good!" he called. 

She did look sweet in her rich satiny black and widow's poke with the 
white camellias and her bright curls showing gold beneath the brim. 

"Hop on," she smiled, "and I'll drop you at the jelly joint. The 
quickest I can make Miami is a heap too slow for me!" 

The Liberty Boys of '26 

Frank Hardaway was the very young man the K. K. K.'s were laying 
for. Just because the old gentleman owned the fertilizer works in West 
End and had made a pile in Florida, Frank thought he owned the town. 
He strutted about in tailor-made clothes, a misplaced eyebrow on his lip, 

■■<{ 38 }3»~ 

Over two billion 
smoked a month! 

— it's clear enough what smokers want! 


Real delicacy of aroma, but 
without loss of natural 
tobacco taste and character 

THAT'S what smokers want — and 
what's more, they know just where 
to get it, 

Witness Chesterfield's remarkable 
record; for four years' running, Amer' 
ica's fastest-growing cigarette. 

Chesterfield offers "natural tobacco 
taste" at its mild and mellow best, just 
the natural leaf sweetness of fine to- 
baccos put together right — and "judged 
by results," that's just what smokers 





his pockets full of loose change. All he had to do was to wink, and of 
course the women flocked after him. He bought them candy and drinks 
and rode them in his sporty automobiles until all you could see was a cloud 
of dust. People recognized his cars parked in the dark of country roads, 
but the Three K's didn't take any action until he started rushing Marie de 
Lemos. Marie, of course, was a married woman. 

Not that he could do her any harm — for Marie had gone the ropes 
'herself — but it was just the principle of the thing. Poor old Bert de Lemos 
was in the asylum at Chattanooga, and it was bad enough for Marie to 
draw his insurance every month without some man taking advantage of 
him. Marie was a little queen. She had blue-black hair and flashing 
eyes, and she knew how to put her clothes on. Frank Hardaway wasn't 
the first man who had made eyes at her. 

They had just parked in the pecan grove on the Narrow Lane road one 
Sunday night when the K. K. K.'s got in behind them. There were ten 
men, with handkerchiefs tied over their faces, in a ramshackle Ford, and 
of course one man didn't stand a chance against them. Four of them 
lifted Marie, biting and kicking, into the Ford and drove around a bend of 
the road, and the remaining six tackled Frank. The tallest of the gang 
thrust the sawed-off barrel of a shotgun between his ribs and marched 
him to the middle of a cotton field. 

"Shuck them dummy clothes off," he commanded. "We'll teach you 
how to fool with another man's wife! " 

Frank put his hands up, but he laughed as if he thought it was all a 
joke. "Let's call it a party, bo's," he urged gayly. "There's enough back 
there in the hold for all of us to get right." 

The tall man guffawed. "Listen to that, Shorty! Seems like tar an' 
feathers ain't strong enough for this bird." 

There was a murmur in the ranks. "Hold on a minute, Long," one of 
the shadows spoke up. "The mullet may have some liquor. Might as well 
get what's comin' to us." 

"Always thinkin' about your stomicks!" 

"The son of a gun don't drink nothin' but red." 

"Well, make it snappy! I got a cramp in my hand as it is. . . " 

"You'd better let me get it for them," Frank said softly. "It's in a 
secret pocket where they wouldn't be likely to find it." 

"Say, whod'ye think you are, Mr. Godrocksr You act like you wanter 
try it — " 

4 40 ^ 

The Younger Generation 
in Print 

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Subscriptions $2 the year 

Box 770 Chapel Hill, N. C. 


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Dinner and Evening 

We've prepared to meet the demands of any 
student who wishes a tuxedo. 

PRICE— $24.50. 

Our representative will display on the follow- 
ing dates at Sutton & Alderman's Drug Store: 

Oct. 18 and 19; Oet. 25th and 26th; Nov. 8th 
and 9th; Nov. 24th and 25th; Dee. 6th and 7th. 

It will pay you to wait for the above dates. 


Fashion Park Clothiers. 

yewelry- for college men 

For nearly half-a-century we have known } r our wants. The col- 
lege man's taste is just a shade different — and we have that different 
kind of quality jewelry. Come in when you're over. 

For favors, rings, and other novelty jewelry pertaining to college 

R. S. WILLIAMSON, Carolina Representative 
Alpha Lambda Tau Apts. 

"Quality VriQuestionablc Since 1887" 

First National Bank Bldg. 

Durham, N. C. 



On Rosemary Street, just back of the 

Bank of Chapel Hill 

Phone 220 






Christian O King 
Printing Company 

"Craftbuilt Trintmg" 

nters of College Publications that 
are distinctly different 


A shout from the road cut him short. "Hey, Long! You'll have to The 

trot the bird over. We can't get wise to this buggy." CAROLINA 

Frank flung the door back, kicked a panel above the switchboard, and y\ XGA/INF 
shot the gas on like a streak. There was a chorus of yells, the shotgun 
spattered a round of lead, — too late. 

Marie was waiting at police headquarters and Frank picked her up and 
rode her home as insolently as if nothing had happened. A crowd of loafers October 

had wandered in at the alarm, and she stood on the running-board and got 
them told before the car shot off. 

"Don't think I couldn't spill the dirt on these fine K. K. K.'s — if I 
didn't have too much pity on their poor wives," she cried, her eyes flashing. 
She looked like one of the furies with her hair hanging loose and the red 
scratches on her neck and arms. "A sad lot of eggs they are, trying to take 
up a single man for pullin' the same stunt they've tried to sneak and pull! 
Oh, maybe I haven't got the low-down on these Liberty Boys of '26!" 

u Fm a King' 

"He's a ..umb-bell and I'm a king," Roy Marcus always said when he 
closed a big deal. Roy had profited by the Florida boom in a rather 
curious way. He bought up houses and lots from young married couples 
eager to hit the Florida trail at almost nothing, and later resold them, 
often to the same couples, at double the price he had paid for them. As 
he got along, and the speculators who returned were more hard up than 
ever, he even loaned them money at exorbitant rates — to buy their own 
homes back with! 

Sometimes it was a woman he crooked, and then he patted her shoulder 
consolingly, "Well, somebody had to be the loser! I tell you this Florida 
business has broke many a one. I said to myself, Roy'll never drop his 
candy with any of these smooth talkers. Why, if I didn't know my stuff 
some of these guys would have sucked me in long ago. But, no indeed! 
None of this Florida dirt for mine." 

There was something effeminate about Roy, even when he was talking 
business, and women shrank from his moist hands with their bristly blond 
hairs. "The wart!" his stenographer sniffed to the other girls in the 
office, "he's so crooked he could hide behind a corkscrew." 

One morning a dazzling golden creature, carrying the softest London 
Cross bag, tripped in the office and asked to speak with Mr. Roy Marcus. 
At the sound of her voice he was already on his feet, bowing and smiling, 
ushering her in the tiny cubicle he used as a committee room. 
-Hjf 43 )gH- 



"Miss Gloria Grey, eh?" he squinted at the bevelled card she 
extracted from her beaded purse. "It can't be — " 

"Oh, no," she shook her head at him with a kittenish grace as if to 
say "Naughty, naughty!" "Not the Gloria Gray of the Follies, of course. 
I spell mine with an e. I'm of English descent!" 

Roy stared at the bag she had lifted to the table, his eyes standing out 
on stems. A bundle of glossy prints bulged the opening: boating and fishing 
scenes, beach parties, the picture of a couple strolling down the shining 
sands, a moon soaring riotously overhead. "Did you wish ... to see me 
... on some business?" he asked faintly. 

She spread the pictures on the table for him to see, her hands just 
brushing his as he moved the bag for her. "I do hope you're not too busy ! " 

"Oh, no— but, er — " 

"Could you come closer?" She beckoned him with an adorable gesture, 
and held up the moonlight scene. "I want you to get the eifect of the 
light on this. Don't you cherish that?" 

"Well, if you could lead me to a moon like that — " 

Gloria dropped a soft hand on his arm. "You know, something told 
me you'd feel that way about it! Selling as many big men as I do, I've 
come to realize how few of them really appreciate beauty. With you, 
though, it rates so much you have to own it!" She snapped a rubber from 
a roll of blue prints. "Now these lots are going like hot cakes. . . " 

How adorable she was when she pursed her lips and murmured "like 
hot cakes!" Roy bent his head close, caught at her finger playfully as she 
outlined a great semi-circle on the map. 

"I want you to buy that whole strip of land on the coast," she whispered 
with a breathtaking petulance, "and the moon, too!" 

Roy covered her hand. She looked at him pleadingly with her big 
eyes and trembled toward him. "Well, girlie, I'll say you're some fast 

Gloria stayed on in Jackson while the deal was being closed, and left 
town very suddenly one gray morning on the Piedmont Limited. Roy 
heard the news over the telephone and rushed around to the hotel to see 
if it could be true. 

The clerk greeted him sourly. "Sure she's beat it," he muttered, 
"and her bill, too. Say — " he fished under the desk and pulled out a 
roll of blue prints, "take a look at this junk. You're some king or 'nother 
round here — is there anything to 'em?" 

-Hg( 44 )§*»•- 

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7fc Writers 


ERIC WALROND, whose book of short stories, "Tropic Death," 
(Boni and Liveright — 1926) is just out, is on the staff of Opportunity, the 

outstanding journal of negro life in the United States SARA 

HAARDT was one of the regular contributors to The Reviewer, and has 

recently appeared in The American Mercury H. A. BREARD is a 

senior at the University and was on the staff of The Magazine last year. . . 
. . . . R. K. FOWLER has been a consistent contributor to The Magazine 

and has served on the staff for three years ALFRED KREYMBORG 

is one of the recognized poets of the South whose latest book of verse, 

"Scarlet and Mellow", has been hailed as something truly American 

ANNE BLACKWELL PAYNE a native North Carolinian has 

announced that a book of her verse will make its debut sometime before 

Christmas MARY SINTON LEITCH, secretary of the Poetry 

Society of Virginia, is also planning to publish a collection of her verse 
in the near future. Her lyric in this issue won second place in the Irene 
Leache contest recently D. SCOTT POOLE is more generally- 
known as the originator of the famous "Poole Bill". 

Next Month and hater 

Nell Battle Lewis has promised The Magazine an article on North 
Carolina and North Carolina politics, which may help to explain some of 
the queer actions of Tarheelia in the legislative field. . . . Paul Green, who 
has completed his latest play, "Supper for the Dead," a powerful negro 
play which will appear in The Magazine next month, has just received a 
wire that another of his works has been accepted for production in New 

York Eric Walrond is preparing an article on the "Southern Negro 

in the North" for The Magazine and a review of his book, "Tropic 
Death," will be of interest. . . . Poetry from Clinton Scollard, Ellen M. 
Carroll, Victor Starbuck, Anne Blackwell Pavne, and others. 

<{ 46 ^ 

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Virginia Lay i 


Supper For the Dead 

Paul Green 

A Lonely Peace ( Verse) 

Victor Starbuck 


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Sara Haardt 


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-«( 2 }>■- 




Supper for the Dead 

By Paul Green 

•NOTE: The final d's and g's are in most cases retained as an aid to 
reading. Oot should be pronounced "gut", put, "putt", right, 
"raght", what, "whut", etc. 


Fess Oxendine, a Croatan Negro. 
Vonie Oxendine, a Negro, his wife. 
Old Queen ie, a Negro conjure-woman. 

her two daughters. 


The latter fart of the nineteenth century. 


In a Cafe Fear River swamp in eastern North Carolina. 
The burning sun has gone down over the Oxendine clearing and a sort 
of steaming night-sweat creeps up and around the cabin from the feverish 
surrounding swamps. FESS OXENDINE, a powerful Croatan Negro of 
middle age with a swarthy copperish face stands by the pig-pen holding a 
bucket in his hand and watching his pig eat slops. The pig finally finishes 

—4 3 }§*••- 



his guzzling and squeals and gnaws at the rails for more, but Fess pays no 
attention to him now, watching on with unseeing eyes. The dusk gradually 
thickens in the little field, swamp owls begin their mournful calling, and 
presently a mocking-bird bursts into a lonely chatter in the one pear tree 
near the garden. Fess with a mutter shakes his shoulders and looks morosely 
around at the sky. The spectacle of the west burning in a flame and the 
clouds marching in their glory seems to irritate and awe him. With a bitter 
oath, he lurches across his few potato rows and into the house. Sitting down 
by the fire-place, he begins to dip snuff, now and then running his hand 
through his mop of heavy hair. 

In the back of the room is a bed and to the left of that a broken-down^ 
cot. A rough eating-table is in the center. Three or four pots and pans' 
hang to the right of the fireplace and in the comer a cupboard contains some 
provisions and a few cracked dishes. There are two or three chairs with 
untanned cowhide bottoms. A door at the right opens to the outside, and 
in the left wall is a wooden window with a double-barreled shot gun above 
it. Old clothes are hanging on nails about the room. 

P ess [slapping himself and mutter- 
i?ig] : Mon, dem domn muskeeters seem 
lak try to eat you up. [He beats about 
him with his ragged felt hat and 
sits listening.] Why 'on't she come on 
hyuhr And dem owls, dem owls, seem 
lak worse dan useter. [He lights a sput- 
tering lamp, sets it on the table and 
resumes his seat before the hearth. Pres- 
ently he lifts the lid from the spider 
sitting near the coals.] Hunh, left 
me nary a bite t'eat. Knowed it. 
Min' take my cowhide when she come 
and beat the clothes off'n her. Whah she 
gone nohow r [Pondering.] Sump'n in 
her mind, dat's a fac'. [He wanders to 
the door, looks out, and gives a sharp 
whistle. As he waits with no reply, his 
face grows distorted with anger, and he 
yells.] Heigh, you, Vonie! 'Come out'n 
dat 'ere swamp ef you's down dere.' 
[His hound shakes himself in the yard 

and corning up into the door leans 
agonist his leg. The brute's gesture of 
kindliness infuriates him and with a 
savage kick, he hurls him from him. 
hi a sudden burst of anger he springs 
across the room, jerks down the gu?i 
and hurries to the door.] Gwine shoot 
dat God-domn dog. Git f'om hyuh, 
you dirty suck-aig devil! Alius in de 
way. [He raises his gun and fires, and 
the dog runs screaming across the field. 
He fires a second time and stands lis- 
tening to the screams of pain dying 
towards the swamp. Then, heaving a 
great sigh, he sets the stock of the gun 
on his foot.] Unh-hunh, I been telling 
dat Nick to keep out'n my way. Anh, 
dat purty sudden dough, shooting him 
lak dat. [Chuckling.] Sho' tore up his 
tail wid dem shot, I betcha. [He stands 
thinking.] Seem lak everything gitting 
wrong wid me. My haid des' flies all 


to pieces. [Shaking hi?nself.] Wish't I 
could fohgit dat 'ere dream I had-oh- 
Lawd! Next thing I'll be putting a load 
o' shot in dat Vonie. [ //,- gets two 
shells from the cupboard, reloads the 
gun, and replaces it above the window; 
after which he sets about stirring up 
the fire and preparing supper. He places 
a frying-pan on the coals and begins 
hacking off huge slices of white side 
meat at the cupboard. While he is 
thus occupied, Vonie shuffles quietly in. 
She is a middle-aged Negro, dressed in 
dirty rags, all hips and feet and with a 
little pole-like chest. One eye is missing 
from her head, leaving a red mem- 
braneous slit between her lids. Her 
face is dead and sagging and Unrelieved 
by a>/v vitality even in her one good 
ere. As she enters, Fess whirls upon her 
with a shout, raising the knife in his 
hand.] Yeah, and where you been to, 

Vonie. [Dragging off her bonnet 
and sitting quietly in a chair.] Off. 

Fess. [With a guttural snarl.] 
Reckon I knows it, and you gone de 
whole evenin'. [Seizing her and put- 
ting the knife against her throat.] 
Gooder min'er rip yo' gullet open. 
Whah you been to, I axes you? 

Vonie. [Choking out the words.] 
Off, off a little piece. 

Fess. [Crushing her down in her 
seat.] Spet out, spet out! What you 
up to. [Vonie closes her eye and drops 
her head limply against his hand. He 
gives her throat a little sharp prick and 
steps back from her with a threatening 
chuckle.] All right, I'll find out. Better 
not be up to no tricks, you know me — 

Vonie. [Wiping a trickle of blood 
fro?n her throat with her afron and 

speaking in a thin stifled voice.] Gouge 
t'other eye out, anh? 

Fess. [Throwing his knife dozvn and 
slumping in a chair.] Mon's 'oman tell 
de shuriff on him orter have 'em both 
bored out wid a chunk o' far. 

Vonie. Ain't no shuriff dis time. 

Fess. Better not be. But you act so 
cjuare all day long! Sump'n in yo' 

Vonie. [Quietly.] Dey is. 

Fess. [Softly as he punches up the 
fire.] Still worrying 'bout it — 'bout 

Vonie. Mought. 

Fess. Quit it, quit it, cain't be ho'p. 

Vonie. Mought could a mont' ago. 
[Bowing her head in her hands.] Po' 
little thing! 

Fess. [Eyeing her.] Hanh? 

Vonie. Po' little thing. 

Fess. [Sharply.] Hyuh now, thought 
you done say all mebbe foh de best. 

Vonie. Mebbe . . [Levelly.] But 
den I been turning it in my haid. [She 
darts a quick look at him and stares at 
the floor.] 

Fess. Dat what you been doing off 
in dem woods? 

Vonie. Ne' mind. 

Fess. Don't talk too sharp wid me, 
nigger. [Vonie suddenly breaks into a 
low sardonic and toothless laugh. Fess 
turns and gazes at her in astonishment, 
thru shrugs his shoulders carelessly.] 
Yo' misery mak' you laugh lak dat? 

Vonie. Mebbe. 

Fess. [Bounding out of his chair.] 
'Y God you stop dat and git a move on 
you 'bout my supper. [He moves to- 
ward her.] Hyuh I been waiting, and I 
got to hurry to de swamps. 

Vonie. Better not go to dat still 








Fess. Hunh? 

Vonie. I hearn de depities is on to 
it. Dey watch tonight. 

Fess. Dat de truf? 

Vonie. [In the same imfersonal 
voice.] Mebbe. 

Fess. [Stopping uncertainly.] Hyuh 
. . . Quare you telling me dat. Seem lak 
you'd want 'em to git me, way dey 
did t'other time. 

Vonie. Don't want 'em to git you 
dis time. 

Fess. Not if you wants to keep dat 
haid where it belongs. [With a touch of 
kindness.] Whah'd you heah 'bout dem 
officers, Vonie? 

Vonie. Over de creek. 

Fess. What you doing over dere? 

Vonie. A little business. 

Fess. [Raging.] A little business! 
Cut out dat making fun of me. [With 
a sudden thought.] You ain't tell dem 
officers dey find me hyuh, has you? 

Vonie. I ain't told 'em nothing. 

Fess. Cain't see what you planning. 

Vonie. [Giving him another quick 
glance.] Lonesome hyuh by myself 
now. Be bad wid you in de pen. 

Fess. [Someiuhat softened.] Sho' 
den I set wid you. 

Vonie. [Going on in cold impassive- 
ness.] Too lonesome and her not wid 
me hyuh. 

Fess. [Gruffly.] Yeh, but I be hyuh 
wid you now. 

Vonie. Mebbe. 

Fess. [Staring at her in angry 
mna-zcment.] What'n de name o' God 
you mean, 'oman, wid all dat mebbe 

Vonie. [Smiling queerly.] How 
long since it happened? 

Fess. Don't put no membrance 'pon 
it. Fohgit it, let it go by. 

Vonie. 'Bout a mont', ain't it, since 
us found her in de water? 

Fess. Well den, 'bout a mont'! 

Vonie. New-moon night? 

Fess. [Hurriedly.] Don't know, 
cain't 'member all dat. Quit fetching 
it up, I tell you. [In a loud voice.] 
She up above now, at rest. Preacher 
say she good girl. 

Vonie. [With sudden vehemence.] 
Her wuh good too, but den somebody 
wuh mean. 

Fess. [Softly.] How come? 

Vonie. Who put her in dat creek 
and drownded her? 

Fess. Done told you she must had 
slipped in when she fishing. 

Vonie. Why ain't you tried to find 
out who 'twas, you her daddy? 

Fess. She got drownded, dat's all. 

Vonie. [Crying out.] Fess Oxen- 
dine, who done it, who wuh de man? 

Fess. [Snapping.] How de hell I 
know? [He quickly goes over to the 
bed and lies down.] I gwine lie 
and rest a minute. Git on now and fry 
me dat meat. 

Vonie. [Beginning to beat on her 
knees.] Some ob 'em say she drownded 
herself and gone down to hell. Dey 
say it dat day at de graveyard. 

Fess. She fell in I tell you and got 
dat fish-line all wropped 'round her 
neck. Dat choked her down. 

Vonie. [Standing up.] And what 
you doing las' night talking 'bout fish- 
lines in yo' dreams? And one time you 
hollered out and call her purty flower. 

Fess. [Starting and then speaking 
cunningly.] Et too much o' dat grease 
and dat meat, mak' me have bad dreams. 
Quit dat worrying. She gone on up to 
heaben. Sho' she sorry foh you and 
me way down hyuh. 


Vonie. [Mournfully.] I gwine find 
out whah she gone. 

P'ess. Hunh? 

Vonie. Find out. 

P'ess. [Snorting.] You must be crazy 
or sump'n. How you gwine do datr 

Vonie. Find out who done it too. 

Fess. [Sitting nf on the edge of the 
bed.] How you mean? 

Vonie. Help comin' hyuh. Us gwine 
find out. 

Fess. [In a low voice.] Who com- 

Vonie. I been over to Aunt Queen- 

Fess. [Sfringin' out of bed.] Dat 
'oman ain't coming in my house. 

Vonie. Her and de twins is coming 
hyuh in a few minutes. 

Fess. [Getting his gun.] Dem snake 
folks come in hyuh, I fill 'em full o' 

Vonie. She don't keer nothing foh 

Fess. Whah dey now? 

Vonie. Dey come by de graveyard 
to git some de dirt off'n her grave. 

Fess. I'll kill 'em, I tell you. 

Vonie. [Sitting down again and 
watching him intently.] Nunh-unh, 
you won't. Lead won't bodder 'em, and 
'sides, dey'd han't you and destroy you 
wid deir power. 

Fess. Hunh, dat hain't business! 
What dey gwine do hyuh? 

Vonie. Dey show you. 

Fess. [Setting his gun down against 
the wall.] Pshaw, dey cain't hurt me. 
Keep strong in de haid, dat's all. Mess 
wid me and I git me a stick and frail 
'em out'n hyuh. bun 

Vonie. [Laughing toothlessly again.] 
You de only man'd say dat. 

Fess. [Throwing up his head.] And 
I's de man kin do it too. You low- 

down niggers all got no mo' sense dan 
a gang o' sheep. Fess Oxendine ain't 
dat sort. He got de white folks blood 
in him, and dat old Indian chief wuh 
my grandpap. [Boldly.] Yeh, let 'em 
try all deir mess t'won't skeer me. 

Vonie. [Cryptically.] Sho' you too 
much man foh de nigger trash. 

Fess. All dat business 'bout Jack- 
muh-Iantern and dat Plat-eye — hunh, 
I seed 'em and never 'twon't nothing 
but old fox-far or lightning bugs. 
[Laughing.] And you niggers all freez- 
ing wid fear of 'em. 

Vonie. Sho', dat's all. [She goes to 
the chimney and taking a little brown 
packet from a nad y throws it into the 

Fess. [With a shout.] Heigh, what 
you doing? 

Vonie. [Returning to her chair.] 
Sho' you don't keer 'f I burn up my 
little trick. Dey ain't no power in it, 
you said many a time. 

Fess. [Moving towards the fire.] 
You don't want to burn it up now wid 
old Queenie coining hyuh. 

Vonie. Queenie ain't gwine hurt 
me. [Fess stops, and Vonie laughs sar- 
castically.] No, he ain't skeered o' noth- 
ing. He strong in de haid and all-pow- 
erful. [In a monotone.] Fess Oxendine 
de mighty man o' the Cumberland 
swamps, don't hadder put no 'pendance 
in no conjuh bag. He strong enough 
widout it, de wild buck of de river. 
How many men has he cut to de hol- 
low? And de wimmen, and de wim- 
men! Bad Fess dey calls him. [Teas- 
ingly.] Bedder not let dat little bag 

Fess. [Throwing back his shoulders.] 
Domn dat little bag! What I keer? 
[Turning and kicking her.] Git now 
and fix my supper. 



4 7 )» 



Vonie. [Laughing again.] We all 
eat supper togedder. 

Fess. Hunh? 

Vonie. Supper foh de daid. 

Fess. What's dat? 

Vonie. Us gwine feed her, po' little 

Fess. [Mumbling in perplexity.] 
Dat studying 'bout it got her wrong in 
de haid. [There is a noise outside and 
old Queenie stands in the door. Fess 
looks at her a moment and then sits 
quietly in his chair near the fire. The 
old woman comes in, followed by her 
twin daughters. She is an incredibly 
ancient Guinea Negro of a bluish-black 
color, drawn and skinny, with bright 
little eyes, and dressed in a single gar- 
ment of dull red flannel. She walks 
with a stick and carries a little leather 
satchel on her arm. The twins, dressed 
i?i the same dull stuff, and holding 
hands, follow her into the room. They 
are about sixty years old and walk with 
short quivering -palsied steps, their tiny 
bonneted heads rising above their shoul- 
ders with the grace and litheness of two 
snakes. As they enter they fasten their 
beady eyes on Fess, who moves closer 
against the zvall.] 

Queenie. [Motioning with her stick 
and speaking in a husky jerky voice.] 
Set over dere. [The twins move over 
and sit down on the edge of the bed. 
Old Queenie looks carefully around 
the room atid smiles triumphantly as 
her eyes rest on the packet burning in 
the fire.] 

Vonie. [Rising and placing her a 
chair.] Set down and rest yo' se'f. 

Queenie. [Huskily.] Who dat 

Vonie. Dat Fess, de daddy o' her. 
[Fess watches her narrowly, abstract- 
edly pulling out his snuff-box. 

Queenie. Sho' dat Fess. [Pleasant- 
ly.] Bad man, ain't you, Fess? 

Fess. [Growling.] What you doing 
hyuh in my house? [He turns his head 
away and begins dipping.] Old 'oman 
what de snakes useter suck. [A sudden 
gleam comes into Queenie's eye, quickly 
passing away.] 

Queenie. How you all gitting on? 

Fess. Gitting on all right and you 
might take dem two bastards off my 
bed and hit de grit from hyuh. 

Queenie. Don't mind us, Fess. 
D'ain't no harm in us. [Looking at 
him pleasantly.] Gimme a bit o' yo' 
snuff, Fess. [She smiles kindly at him. 
The twins lean forward expectantly.] 

Fess. Sho' I don't mind dat. Hyuh. 
Help yo'se'f. [She takes the snuff and 
puts some in her lip and nose.] , You 
don't seem so quare adder all. [Old 
Queenie suddenly sneezes and then in- 
hales with a deep breath of delight.] 
But dem two 'omans on dat bed . 

Queenie. [Sneezing again and 
smiling at him.] Dey po' harmless chil- 
lun. But ain't dey purty, Fess? I calls 
'em my two snakes. Talk to him, chil- 
lun. [They lick their tongues out at 

Fess. [Starting back.] Great God, 
dem things ain't human! [Vonie sits 
down and says nothing.] 

Queenie. Oh, dey kin talk bed- 
der'n dat. Dey kin say words at 
times. Po' things, got marked by a 
big rattlesnake pilot bit me in de swamp 
'fo' dey was bawn. [She sneezes again, 
gazing indulgently at Fess.] Look at 
deir little haids and deir little black 
eyes, des lak a snake foh de world. 
[She sneezes again and the twins grow 
more and more excited, their heads ap- 
pearing to rise higher and higher on 
the stems of their scrawny necks.] 

Fess. Make 'em quit looking at me 
dat-a-way. [She hands the snuff-box 
back to him.] 

Queenie. Dat mighty good snuff, 
Fess. [She sneezes twice in rapid suc- 
cession and turns and looks at the twins. 
Their tongues begin to flutter between 
their lifs as they look hungrily at their 

Fess. [Suspiciously.] Why you sneeze 
so? [Vonie looks up intently.] 

Queenie. [Speaking gently over her 
shoulder.] Good snuff, Fess, good Rail- 
road Mills. [She opens her mouthy 
wrinkles her nose y and then sneezes 
sharply. The two women sit up stiff 
and straight on the bed. Queenie shouts 
out.] Seben times, chillun, seben times! 
[She totters over to the door and looks 
out over her left shoulder.] Dere it is, 
dere's de new moon behine dat poplar. 
All ready, fixed and ready, fixed and 

Fess. [Standing up.] Don't you start 
dat 'ere business, I tell you. 

Queenie. [With a sharp gesture.] 
Set down in dat cheer, nigger man, set 
down. [Fess gradually sinks back in 
his chair, waiting.] 

Fess. [Muttering.] But min' what 
I told you. 

Queenie. [Raising her head and 
speaking in the air.] God befo' me, God 
behine me, God be wid me. 

Lil and Fury. [Whispering.] God 
be wid me. 

Queenie. Dat right, talk out, speak 
fo'th chillun. Dere was po' li'l Miny 
drownded in de creek. Whah she now? 

Lil and Fury. Whah? 

Queenie. Mebbe in heben, mebbe 
in hell, mebbe walking in de swamps. 
[Vonie bows her head on her knees.] 
Us gwine find out, gwine raise huh 

ghos' f'om de daid and feed huh, gwine 
see who kill huh. 

Lil and Fury. Who kill huh. 

Fess. [With a brutal laugh.] Reck- 
on you won't be gitting de daid back 
hyuh. [He reaches for his gun and lays 
it across his lap.] 

Queenie. [Touching Vonie's bent 
back with her stick.] Fetch me huh 
dress and bonnet. [ Vonie rises and gets 
a dress and bonnet from a nail in the 
wall. Queenie places a chair to the 
table, spreads the dress over it, and puts 
the bonnet on top, forming a crude 
dummy. Fess watches every movement 
with skeptical braggadocio. Old Quee?i- 
ie calls.] Chillun! 

Lil and Fury. [Softly.] Yeh, mam. 

Queenie. Kin you heah me? 

Lil and Fury. Us heah you. 

Queenie. Kin huh heah me? 

Lil and Fury. Huh heah you too. 

Queenie. [Chuckling.] Us gut de 

Lil and Fury. De power. 

Queenie. Fetch me de free plates 
and de bowl. [ Vonie goes to the cup- 
board and brings the dishes to the table. 
Old Queenies sets them out, a plate 
before the dummy, one at each end of 
the table and the bowl in the middle. 

Fess. Sech a pack o' fools! 

Queenie. Come to de table, chillun. 
[With jerky steps they move over and 
seat themselves, one at each end of the 
table. Queenie opens her satchel and 
takes out a dirty little paper bag and 
empties it in the bowl.] Po' in, po' in 
dirt f'om huh grave. 

Lil and Fury. De graveya'd dirt. 

Queenie. [Pulling out a handful of 
herbs and placing them in the bowl.] 
Bring me de far-coal, 'oman. [Vonie 
brings a fire-coal on a piece of wood. 




-4 9 ►- 




Queeme takes it in her hand and blmvs 
on it.] 

Fess. Great God, it don't burn her! 

Queenie. [Dropping it into the 
bowl.] Blow on it, chillun. [They bend 
their heads toward the center of the 
table and blow in the bowl. Presently 
a curl of smoke rises upward.] Breave 
dat smoke down in you. [They inhale 
the fumes and sit stiffly back in their 
chairs looking unblinkingly at old 
Queenie. The old woman draws several 
pieces of white meat from her satchel 
and places one in each of the three 
plates.] Eat dat, chillun. [They begin 
eating. Vonie comes up near the table 
and stands watching.] 

Fess. What dat dey eating? [Horri- 
fied.] I bet to Christ dat rashers of 
dead folks! 

Queenie. See anything yit? 

Lil and Fury. [Dreamily.] Not 
yit, Mammy. 

Queenie. [Pulling out three dark 
objects resembling frogs and placing 
them on the plates.] Eat dat, chillun. 
[Queenie peers into their eyes as they 
eat.] See yit? 

Lil and Fury. See little bit. 

Queenie. [Huskily.] What dat, 

Lil and Fury. Sump'n 'way, 'way 
in a big snow field. 

P'ess. [Jumping out of his chair.] 
God A'mighty, dey eating frawgs. 
[Queenie waves her hand behind her 
and Fess gradually sinks back in his 
chair, staring at them with open 

Queenie. Look clost, look clost. Is 
dey people dere? 

Lil and Fury. People dere. 

Queenie. Huh dere? 

Lil and Fury. Cain't see urn. [Old 

Queenie pulls out more dried herbs and 
puts them in the bowl. Thick clouds of 
smoke pour upward and settle about the 
room.] Breave it, chillun, breave it. 
[She takes a little red flannel pouch out 
of the satchel and pours some white 
powder in each of the three plates. The 
twins wet their fingers and dip the 
powder into their mouths. Queenie 
coaxes them on.] Look down, 'way- 
down yander in dat t'other place. Look 

Lil and Fury. [In a far-away 
voice.] Us looking. 

Queenie. Kin see dere? [They sud- 
denly draw back horrified.] Look, look 
dere, I tell you. 

Lil and Fury. [Shuddering.] Ah! 
[They close their eyes and sway from 
side to side.] 

Queenie. [Sternly.] Look down 
dere, I tell you. [She pulls out a hand- 
ful of hair and casts it into the bowl. 
There is a quick puff of flame upward, 
and Lil and Fury rear back with a low 

Vonie. [Dropping in her chair with 
a cry.] Don't make 'em look, don't 
make 'em. Dey done see sump'n, sump'n 
bad. [She hides her face in her arms.] 

Queenie. Look down dere! 

Lil and Fury. Kin see now. 

Queenie. See huh? 

Lil and Fury. See huh. 

Vonie. [Shrieking.] Po' little Miny 
down dere in hell! [She covers her head 
with her apron.] 

Queenie. Keep yo' eye on huh, 
don't lose huh. [She begins to chant as 
she draws fetishes fro??i the satchel and 
arranges them on the table.] 
Feathers, cakes and beans and cawn, 
Thumb of de bastard son jist bawn. 
Spider, wasp and field-mice tongue. 

-4 1 o }§►••- 

Fess. [Shooting out of his chair with 
a yell.] I done see dat-ere bonnet move 
on de cheer! [He jerks uf his gun.~\ 

Queenie. [Chanting.] Eye of a 
man de gallus hung. 

Fess. [Snarling, as he cocks his gun.] 
You quit dat conjure business, don't I 
shoot you. [He suddenly starts for the 
door, but old Queenie steps before him 
holding up her stick.] 

Queenie. You ain't gwine out'n 
hyuh, black man, till we's done. [With 
a quick movement of her stick she bends 
down and draws a line on the floor 
from the door to the fireplace, enclos- 
ing Fess.] You step over dat line and 
you fall daid. Stay back dere man and 
don't you move. Do, I ruin you foh- 
ever. [Fess puts out his foot as if to step 
over. Queenie watches him with uplift- 
ed hand and the twins moan loudly. 
Finally he slinks back to his chair and 
sits down shivering.] 

Fess. All right, God domn you! I 
wait and see what you up to. 

Queenie. [Laying out more fet- 

Devil's snuff and de dried dog brains, 
'Oman's scabs dat died in chains. 
Ground calf-tongue and de black cat's 

bone — 

[Raising her voice in a high plead- 
ing.] Come up, Miny, git yo' own! 

Fess. [Beating himself with his 
hat.] Dat domn smoke mak' me feel 
quare. [Huskily.] Hunh, I keep strong 
in de haid, dat's what. Dey cain't hurt 
me. Dat old bonnet dere limp as a rag 

Vonie. [Whining wider her apron.] 
Miny, Miny! 

Queenie. Whah she now, chillun? 

Lil and Fury. Kin hardly see, 'bout 

Queenie. Ke 
ing. [She takes 



mall egg and 

■ - pours 

breaks it in the bowl. Thru sh 

a small bottle of fluid in. j 

Black snake ile and rain-crow aig, 

Puts de stren'th in the ghostes laig. 

Make um power of muscle and bone — 

Come up Miny, hyuh's yo' own. 

Lil and Fury. [Softly.] Hyuh's 
yo' own. 

Fess. [Yelling.] I see what you ad- 
der now. You wants to ha'nt me. 
[Cocking his gun.] But you ain't gwine 
do it. I'll blow yo' brains out wid dis 
here. [He levels the gun at them.] I 
gi' you jest one minnit to git out. [Old 
Queenie pays no attention to him, her 
head lifted up as if straining toward a 

Lil and Fury. [Joyously.] Us see 
um now. Huh coming. 

Queenie. [In loud exultation.] 

Fess. Hyuh goes den, and dat's de 
las' o' you. I shoot de old black 'un 

Lil and Fury. Huh in de field out 
dere now. 

Queenie. [Throwing her hands up 
and down in the air.] Yis, yis, I feel it. 

Fess. [His face distorted with rage.] 
I shoot both o' dem eyes out. [He pulls 
the trigger, but the hammer refuses to 
fall. He tries the other one.] Dem 
domn hammers stuck. [He raises the 
gun again atid pulls savagely on the 
triggers. Old Queenie turns and looks 
at him with a low devilish laugh.] 

Queenie. Come on, Miny, hyuh's 
yo' own. 

Lil and Fury. Hyuh's yo' own. 

Fess. [JVith a shriek.] She done got 
dat gun — a spell on it! [He throws the 
gun from him and whirls to his chair. 





Sitthig down with his back to the wom- 
en, he clasps his head between his knees, 
rocking and moaning.] My haid done 
all gone slam to pieces. O, Lawd, have 
muhcy on me! [He cowers in his seat.] 

Lil and Fury. Huh in de yard out 
dere now. 

Queenie. [Ecstatically.] Yis, yis, 
fetch her in. [Calling loudly.] Supper, 
Miny! Come to yo' supper! 

Vonie. [Throwing her apron from 
her head and sitting up calm and 
straight.] Call her, call her, lemme see 
her onct mo'. 

Queenie. [Turning and looking 
through the door.] Look dere, look 
dere. Huh out dere at de well drawing 
water. [The low rumble of a whirring 
windlass is heard.] 

Fess. [Raising his head.] Listen at 
dat, listen at dat! [Crouching doivn on 
the hearth.] Dat's a ha'nt at my well. 
[He sits shivering with terror.] 

Lil and Fury. De ha'nts is drawing 
water at his well. 

Queenie. [Staring out in the deep- 
ening dusk.] De ya'd's full of 'em, all 
come back wid huh. Fess, you is a lost 
membuh. [Reaching out her arms to- 
wards the night and pleading.] Come 
in hyuh, Miny, come on. Call to huh, 
chillun. [Breathlessly.] Call to huh. 

Lil and Fury. [Beating their heads 
against the table.] Heah us, Miny, 
heah us. Come in. De supper is wait- 
ing, de supper is fixed. 

Queenie. Look! Look! She 'bout 
to tuhn back. Feel foh huh, Vonie. Huh 
gwine back in de field wid all dem 
others, de little 'uns and de big 'uns. 
Dey gwine back to de swamps. 

Vonie. [Lifting up her voice in a 
wail.] Miny, Miny, come to yo' po' 
muh dis night! 

Queenie. Huh coming, huh com- 
ing in. [Addressing the spectre.] Dat's 
it, honey, dat's it, come on in. [Her 
voice trembles and slobbers with eager- 
ness, and she begins patting her hands 
softly together, keeping time with her 
foot on the floor.] 

Vonie. [Screaming.] Dere she now. 
[She sits petrified in her chair. A little 
ragged Negro girl with downcast eyes 
comes quietly in at the door and seats 
herself at the table. She is about sixteen 
years old, with swelling breasts and 
a plump oval face. She begins eating 
food from the plate.] 

Vonie. [Murmuring over and over.] 
Miny, Miny, is dat you, chile? Den 
you ain't daid, thank God. [She stares 
at her with fascinated eyes.] Fess, Fess, 
dere's Miny, come back to us! 

Fess. Tain't nothing, tain't nothing. 
Don't you look at dat. [Suddenly old 
Ourcnie begins to caper back and forth 
across the floor, breaking out into sense- 
less ecstatic words.] 

Queenie. [As she capers.] Tibbity- 
bibbity, tchee-tchee-tchee — Tchee- 

Lil and Fury. [Falling on the floor- 
before the little girl.] Purty little 

Queenie. [Waving her arms aloft.] 
Lily o' de valley. 

Lil and Fury. [Making obeisance.] 
Little scrushed Lily. 

Queenie. [Singing.] De rose o' 

Lil and Fury. Rose o' Sharon. 

Queenie. Mean man pulled de little 
flower f'om its bed. 

Lil and Fury. Mean man pulled. 

Queenie. He hadder die. 

Lil and Fury. Gut to die. 

Queenie. Who wuh it, honey. 

~«§j 12 )§•••- 

Ln. and Fury. Who wuh it? [The 
little girl continues eating her food say- 
ing nothing.] 

Queenie. [Crying out.] You, Fess 
Oxendine, look up hyuh and see yo' 
dawtuh ! 

Fess. [Beginning to sob.] I cain't 
see huh, have muhcy on me! 

Queenie. Look up, I tell you. [She 
stretches out her hand and Fess slowly 
lifts his head from the floor. 

Fess. [Gasping.] Who dat? [Joy 
breaking in his voice.] Why dat — Glory 
to God, dat little Miny come back! 
[He staggers to his feet and goes to- 
wards the table.] Den you ain't daid, 
thank de Lawd. Dat all a dream I had. 
Look at you and you so purty. Honey, 
come hyuh to me. [He suddenly breaks 
into loud sobs.] Thank de Lawd, thank 
de Lawd. [As he approaches the table, 
the little girl backs awav in terror and 
moves towards the door.] 

Vonie. Miny, Miny! 

Queenie. Tell us who de man: 
[Without lifting her head, the little 
girl nods at Fess.] I knowed it, he de 
man whut mint you and make you 
drownd yo'se'f. [She reaches into the 
bowl, and a galvanic shock seems to 
run through her. She throws bits of 
the bowl's contents towards the door 
and the little girl suddenly disappears 
into the darkness.] 

Vonie. [Starting up and wailing.] 
Whah she gone? Gi' huh hack to me, 
gi' huh back! 

Queenie. [Throwing part of the 
mixture on Fess.] Hyuh de man! 

Fess. [Screa??iing and clawing at the 
back of his neck.] Let me loose! Who 
dat got me! [He falls writhing and 
howling on the floor. \ 

Queenie. Dere he, Vonie, he de 
man mix wid he own flesh. 

Vonie. [Breaking into a loud 
laugh.] Look at dat bad man lying dere 
cutting up on de Ho'. Dat you, Fess, de 
old swamp buck? 

Fess. Couldn't git huh out'n my 
mind. She so purty. [Clawing his 
clothes from him.] Ooh — let me loose! 
[ Vonie picks up the gun and suddenly 
fires both barrels into Fess's back. Then 
she flies out through the door calling 
pitifully after the little girl.] 

Queenie. [Her face illumined.] 
De power come down to us. [She 
sprinkles Lil and Fury with the con- 
tents of the bowl and they rise from the 
floor with transfigured faces. \ 

Lil and Fury. De power. 

Queenie. [Skipping and chanting.] 
Us re'ch and call and de daid do answer. 

Lil and FuRY. [Beginning to skip 
with her.] Do answer. 

Queenie. [Weaving a pattern 
around Fess' dead body.] Hallelujah! 

Lil and Fury. [Beginning to pat 
their hands.] Hallelujah! 
[The dance quickens into a sharp sta- 
catto, as they szvay and bow and chant.] 

Queenie. Us call and git answer. 

Lil and Fury. Git answer. 

Queenie. De supper fotch um. 

Lil and Fury. [In ecstacy.] Fotch 
um down. 

Queenie. Supper foh de daid. 

Lil and Fury. Foh de daid. 

[The twins continue dancing around 
the body, as old Queenie moves around 
the table raking her charms and fetishes 
into her bag. Their breath comes 
through their teeth in a hissing sound.] 

Queenie. [Dancing towards the 
door.] Tibbity — bibbity — tchee-tchee— 

Lil and Fury. Tchee-tchee— tehee. 
[ They disappear through the door, their 
gibbering dying in the night.] 





-4 13 )s* — 

The Qhimney 

Lilith Shell 
A solitary chimney flung 
Its shadow grim 

Across a field where corn grew up ; 
A mob of loud-mouthed crows flew upj 
Two perched upon the chimney top 
And preened their black wings sleek and trim. 
A few scorched fence pikes lay about, 
Some china trees 

Sprawled awkwardly ; on a bent limb 
A rusty pail with battered rim 
Swung crazilyj and back of all 
The dark pine wood moaned in the breeze. 

A trumpet vine with tendrils green 

And blossoms rich 

Concealed the timbers burned and browned., 

And not content to shield the mound, 

It reached and wrapped an old ash barrel 

Crouched in the weeds like a gray old witch. 

The crows rasped out their raucous calls 

And flapped away ; 

Blended with the pine trees' sigh 

There came a whip-poor-will's weird cry, 

And over chimney, mound and wood 

The twilight settled, dull and gray. 


Jackson, Tennessee 

By Sara Haardt 

"Take a Dare!" 

Clarence Farley was rhe only boy on Jeff Davis avenue who would take 
a dare. He was tall and thin for his fourteen years, with a fair, pear-shaped 
face and sensitive hands. The boys called him Percy, because he looked like 
a picture of Shelley in Long's English Literature. They liked to taunt 
him with petty cruelties that put him to shame before a hilarious audience. 

One evening a crowd of them were playing in Genetta ditch, with Joe 
Brantley and Huck Parker leading the games, as usual. Huck thought of 
the dare first. He called Joe off from the group, and they stood whispering 
a minute; when they burst into loud "Ya, yas!" and Huck shouted, "Eeeee, 
Percy! We double-dog dare you to walk through the ditch. . ." 

Genetta ditch was an ugly trough that cut across Jackson, carrying all 
the refuse from Belle Air, the Negro district. During a heavy rain, 
whiskey flasks, old wash tins and kindling floated in the muddy waters, 
and later when the flood subsided, the neighborhood boys had a picnic 
digging treasures out of the sand. Once Tony Franco dug up a shoe box 
with a dead white baby in it. If there had been any other way for the 
water to drain, the city would have filled the ditch in j as it was, the tax- 
payers in the residential section built a concrete culvert a quarter of a mile 
long over a part of it. 

The culvert was tall and square, and as black as a tunnel inside. Joe 
Brantley and Huck Parker had seen tramps sneaking out of it in the early 
morning and decent neighbors complained that strange couples frequented 
it at night. After an escaped convict hid out in it, the city commission 
nailed an entanglement of barbed wire across the openings, but the spooning 
parties went on just the same. None of the boys had ever dared to walk 
the whole length of it in parties of less than three — and never at dark. 

Clarence had gone very pale, but he managed to answer, "I'll walk it. 
But I double-dog dare you to trail me!' 1 He dropped to his knees and 
emptied his pockets. "You'll be sorry. . . " 

"You'll be sorry jes' too late!" mimicked Joe. 

~4f 15fr- 



Clarence scraped a little pile of matches together and rammed them 
in his outside pocket. "All right, then!" He squirmed through the 
barbed wire and looked out, his pale features already indistinguishable in 
the dark. "I'll 'Who-ee' when I get on an' you can start." 

The crowd was silent for a long time after his footsteps had echoed 
away. "I would not 'ave play heem the dirt," Tony whispered with 
something like a sob. 

"Softy!" Joe scoffed. Inside the wire, he and Huck drew together. 

"I got my flashlight," Huck muttered. "We'll shoot the juice to her if 
it gets too spooky." He gave a salute to the crowd and started ahead. In 
the stilly darkness their shoes were soon squeaking, and Joe panted close 
to his shoulder: 

"Let's take 'em off! We don't wanter give ourselves away." 

They crept on then, scarcely breathing, the walls closing in upon them. 
The air grew thicker, full of suffocating odors and the gases of sewage. 
Joe held his handkerchief to his face. He felt a sudden nausea, but he 
said stoutly, "He must be makin' pretty good time — " 

"Sh-sh. . ." 

They were in the darkest part now. Joe put his hand out, and drew 
it back quickly: the wall was cold and slimy. Suddenly Huck uttered a 
low cry. 

"I believe it's rats! Did you hear that — " 

The light flashed full upon a man and woman against, the farther wall, 
The man had flung his arm up, and, with a little cry, the woman buried her 
head in his shoulder — but not until Huck fell back. 

"Nothing to bite you," the man laughed in a thick voice. 

Huck made a funny noise in his throat as he clicked the light off. They 
walked on in silence for a long time. 

"That was my dad with your mother," Joe said at last. 

"Do you s'pose he knew?" 

"You're mighty right he did!" 

Clarence was waiting on the upper bank, his pale face fairer than ever 
in the gathering dark. "Well," he murmured, "did you step on any 

It was Joe who answered him. 

"Not a cock-eyed one!" 

-Hg| 16}^- 

Blind Bob 

When Blind Bob lost his sight he was a young man and Jackson was a 
town of twenty thousand inhabitants. The streets were unpaved, but shaded 
with giant oaks and magnolias ; there were no more than a dozen mansions 
where Lafayette was entertained on his famous tour of 1825; and a foun- 
tain, sculptured by a French artist, of a lady, half-nude, graced the town 
square — where now a traffic tower has been erected to direct the muddled 
country wagons and Fords on Saturday afternoons. Jackson, indeed, has 
changed so in thirty years that if Bob were to regain his sight, as Bill 
Smith, the evangelist promised, he wouldn't recognize it. "Today," the 
latest bulletin of the chamber of commerce boasts, "Jackson is a big business 
city of skyscrapers, handsome suburbs, churches and clubs. Population 
85,000. Wholesale trading zone, with population of 3,500,000. Nine 
banking institutions. Manufactured products annually amounting to 
$7,500,000. Ten railroads. Sixty-five benevolent organizations. Ninety- 
churches . . . the center of the super-power district of the Southeast!" 
No wonder Bob loses his way on the smooth asphalt streets and rambles on 
like a Rip van Winkle! 

It was on one of these rambles that he stumbled into the Bill Smith 
revival — a warm night in October, ideal for a walking excursion. He had 
been perfectly contented, he afterwards declared, and yet the beauty of the 
night, the soft air, the plaintive voices — something! — had breathed a kind 
of promise. What was it? He had realized where he was, and crowded 
onto a bench between two women. 

"God," the evangelist was swearing, "is no fool! You may fool one 
another, your neighbors, your employees, but you cannot fool God. Lincoln 
once said 'you can fool all the people some of the time, you can fool some 
of the people all the time, but you cannot fool all the people all the time.' 
You cannot deceive God for a moment! God is not mocked. . . " His 
voice rolled out in a series of deep, reverberating chords, thrilling, terrible. 
Bob could see him standing there, his arms folded across his chest, his eyes 
spitting black fire. 

"Let me repeat the only way God has to reveal himself is through you 
and me!" 

A pause, and then a woman's voice singing, clear, shining, unafraid. 
It was too lovely, with the choir joining in the chorus, a hundred voices 
exultant yet harmonious — like the colors of a rainbow. 






"Do you hear, Brothers? He has said the sick shall be made well, the 
weak, strong again! The sick and the afflicted — " 

Bob swayed to his feet. All around him women were crying, beating 
their hands, calling on God and Jesus in soft, endearing voices. Another 
moment and the evangelist would step down from the platform and single 
one from his audience for the laying on of the hands. 

"A-men. . . " 

"Heal me!" Bob challenged. His voice carried such a long way that 
it startled him. Somebody caught his arm . . . the floor rose to meet him. 
He was kneeling. 

For a moment after Bill Smith's prayer, he could see it all very clearly. 
A great man with a dark beard and gleaming eyes was standing over him. 
He wore black clothes, like a flowing robes of a judge, and his arms were 
folded across his breast. The lights were so bright the rest was sort of 
dim . . . the white dresses of the ladies in the choir blinded him. . . . 

He had lost his stick in the crush, but the crowd carried him along with 
it. He was on the sidewalk at last: the blaze of lights no longer warmed 
him. Cars were already honking gaily. The women's tears had suddenly 
changed to laughter, low and yet deliciously flirty. 

"Didn't you love his looks?" 

"Aw, you wimmen make me sick! Let a guy put on one of these pink 
Florida suits an' you think he's a king. He looked like a carrot — with that 
pink hair of his." 

"Why, Ben Calloway! I'll admit he turned red when Blind Bob made 
such a spectacle of himself, but who wouldn't' " 

"Well, I guess Bob sees through him all right, which is more than I can 
say for a lot of people — " 

"Sh-sh ! Poor ole hoss . . . but you needn't tell the whole town about 


Laura Mason had been through a lot before she married Harry Shipley 
and went to housekeeping in Jackson. Although her family had violently 
opposed it, she had gone in training and nursed for four years at the Mercy 
Hospital, where, luckily, she had been put on Harry's case and he had 
fallen in love with her. Nursing wasn't regarded as a very elevating occu- 
pation in Jackson, but of course somebody had to do it. Laura was really 
a marvel at it. Once, during a mine disaster in Birmingham, she stayed on 

■4 1%}>~ 

duty thirty-six hours, in the thick of the most ghastly scenes, tending The 

bodies mutilated past human semblance. There was something miraculously CAROLINA 
soothing in just the touch of her deft fingers. . . MAGA/I N I 

Harry bought one of the finest homes in Avondale and the older 
matrons commented that it was large enough to accommodate quite a ..«>,,<,.. 

family. Laura smiled and blushed at their pointed remarks, hastily 
changing the subject when the old ladies got too inquisitive. November 

"Y-yes, Harry wanted a big place. He's been cooped up in an apart- /o?/ 

ment for so long, you know." 

It was useless to deny it. Harry had said very frankly that he wanted 
children, that married life was a mighty poor excuse without them. Women 
always loved that in a man. The old ladies were plainly shocked at Laura's 
lack of idealism. 

After three years, a few of them were pleasantly congratulatory — 
babies were a burden nowadays with no old mammies to raise them! — but 
the greater number declared agitatedly that Harry had every grounds for 
a divorce. Laura's indifference was a reflection on nice women! 

At last one afternoon at the Three Arts Club meeting old Mrs. William- 
son carried her little digs of disapproval too far. Laura turned on her with 
fiery cheeks, the angry tears sparkling in her eyes. 

"Oh, I know what you've been saying about me — and about Harry — but 
it isn't true! You know so much! I-I haven't had a baby simply because 
I was afraid, — afraid — " She clasped her hands tightly and gave a little 
choked laugh. "I suppose I would have been too yellow to admit it — if 
I hadn't known how brave you were in your pain — all of you — " She 
swayed slightly as she hesitated in the door. "Nursing, you know!" 

Little Mrs. Merriam was the first to break the silence. "Isn't she too 
shameful!" she sighed admiringly. 


"There's no telling who she is," old Dr. Hancock had said every time 
Bertha won an emergency case for him, "but one thing sure — she's more 
white than black!" 

Bertha was a sick-nurse, the. old-fashioned kind who had picked it up 
as she went along, before nursing and hospitals became so stylish. She 
went into a home and took complete charge from the nursery to the 
kitchen, so that all the tony Negroes in Belle Air declared she was too 
biggety for any use. She was lighter than most of them, with straight 

~°4{ 19 ^ — 


The black hair and an aquiline nose; her hands and feet were small, almost 

CAROLINA dainty; but it was her voice that was remarkable. It was high and clear, 
MAGAZINE an d when she laughed, it soared still higher with little trills and ripples. 

The Negroes who worked in the houses where Bertha nursed said she 
..<>,<... was always laughing with the white people and telling them funny stories 

about Pastor Stokes, of Zion Star Church, and the baptisings at Blue Cat 
Pond. Bertha had never got religion. She went to hear the cantatas at 
Old Ship Church sometimes, but it was as the white people went: she never 
joined in the singing. She even sat with the white folks — oif to herself a 
little — and they bowed and smiled to her as they came in. 

Indeed, the white people trusted Bertha so implicitly that young Mrs. 
Henderson was sure she had met with an accident the night she didn't 
return from her afternoon off. Bertha had left the house at two o'clock, 
according to her custom, and started in the direction of Peacock Track to 
visit a niece who was leaving for Tuskegee. Nobody had seen or heard of 
her after that. It was all of four miles, past the cemetery, the city water 
works and dump, but the day had been clear, and Bertha loved a brisk walk. 
Going at her average gait, she must have passed the lower end of the 
cemetery not later than half-past two. The Holy Rollers were holding 
a protracted meeting on the other side of the hill. As quiet as the country 
was, she could easily have heard their shouts or they her cries from the 

Old Dr. Hancock waited for three days and then drove down to the 
Holy Roller camp himself. The meeting was a long time breaking up; 
the sisters and brothers lingered in the dusk, shaking hands, exchanging 
testimonials, brushing the dust and ashes off their clothes. Bertha was the 
center of a loud, congratulatory group, and it was almost dark before she 
started slowly for the road. 

"You, Bertha!" 

She wheeled around and faced him. Nobody but old Dr. Hancock 
would have known her. The starchy white uniform she always wore under 
her coat was torn and streaked with blood; her face was scratched and her 
hair was caked with ashes. She had the wild look of a mad woman. 

"What are you doing with those damn niggers?" 

(Continued on fage 35) 

-ngf 20 )fr- 



To-day as I tossed restless on my rugs, 

My straying fingers caught and tore at pearls 

That crawled about my throat and drew the fire 

From out my heart to hide it in their shells. 

You know the ones — you brought them long ago 

When you were bright and eager as a boy— 

Not wistful-eyed and silent as you are. 

And, oh, my dear, I crushed the leering pearls. 

I beat them with my fists and still they were 

Pearls of desire that round my throat choked all 

The regal thoughts a queen should have — that twisted 

In your hands brought you too near a woman's heart. 

They knew a love, perhaps, for I love you 

As never Cleopatra loved a man, 

But they have cost you Rome. 

Of late, your gaze 
Turns, baffled, from my eyes — and roves instead 
Far past me through the velvet-curtained windows 
To the river which reflects a thousand lights 
And the idly fluttering banners of an army. 
You cannot wonder that I hate the beads. 
They have betrayed a queen and strangled Anthony's 
High hopes. 

You hate the arms that cling about 
Your heart, the lips that touch, the eyes that frown 
On yours. Go, Anthony. Go swift. Your mind 
Looks past the shimmering satin of the Nile 
And sees a court. You are too blind to know 
That Cleopatra's lips are courts of love. 



-•€•{21 }§e~- 

The I drew the pearls through vinegar. I let 

CAROLINA Them drop into the bowl of sour wine. 

MAGAZINE And as they broke in pieces, rose and white, 

I laughed to see the gold thread of our love 
.„ >1(1<J .. In two parts severed by your rapier eyes. 

And as the pearls dissolved and left no trace, 
November The A ame within me flickered out, and ice 

1 Qps Lay underneath the ash. 

Three Crosses on a Hill 

Lilith Shell 

One April day 

I went out on a train 

Past where a soldier's camp was built. 

As 1 neared the place in the early dawn, 
Upon a hillside far and high 
I saw three crosses stand, 
Limned clear against the sky. 

Below men moved about — 

Like ants they looked, 

They were so far from me. 

They seemed to bear a burden down 

The steep slope of the hill, 

And I remembered Calvary. 

The train drew nearer and I saw 
The crosses were but wire strung poles 
With long rough bars outstretched, 
The men but soldiers digging holes. 

But I knew the Christ was crucified 
Anew that day on that gray hillside. 

h§( 22 }§».- 

The Goldfish ™< 



I know two goldfish in a bowl, 
Who think their watery sphere the whole 
Inhabitable cosmos: pent 
Within a glassy firmament, 
With piscatine philosophy 


They ponder on the things they see. 1926 

The sights within that vitreous orb 
One fish's intellect absorbs — 
The pebbles, flints and shards of granite 
That pave the nadir of his planet; 
His patient mind collecting data 
Upon their chemistries and strata, 
And classifying forms that vary 
From Pliocene to Quaternary. 
With contemplative eye, he sails 
Above the broken shells of snails, 
Compiling, from their crumbled pieces, 
The Origin of Kinds and Species. 

The other turns a fishy eye 

On things beyond his glassy sky. 

The window, fire and chandelier 

He views with comprehension clear, 

And can, with knowledge absolute 

Each body's parallax compute; 

Its distance, mass and right ascension, 

Its proper motion and dimension, 

And (though its orbit be eliptic) 

Its declination from th' ecliptic. 

From all these things, with cogent reasons, 
He can predict the change of seasons, 
And can expound with accuracy 
His Relativic Theory. 

And so these fish are often quoted; 
Their theories are gravely noted, 
Where'er (in school or eke in college) 
Fish gather in the quest of Knowledge. 
And both of them have grown so wise 
Their brains almost push out their eyes. 

-••«§( 23 }>°~ 





Cricket Music 

Clinton Scoli.ard 

In the early autumn dusk, 

When the corn is in the husk, 

And the attars of the garden hint of mignonette and musk, 

You may hear the crickets vying, 

Chord to rhythmic chord replying. 

Thrilling through the starry hush 

Out of grass and underbrush 

Comes their clear staccato melting with the nocturne of the thrush ; 

Something plaintive and yet winning 

In their ceaseless violining. 

Play on, tiny minstrels, play 

Your insistent roundelay 

Till above the dim horizon burst the poppy-flower of day! 

As within your notes are blended 

Joy and pain till life is ended. 

A Lonely Place 
Victor Starbuck 

Here life, that hastes so madly otherwheres, 
Has paused for breath. The shadows on the hill 
Lie motionless ; and time stands all but still, 
As if grown weary shouldering his cares. 
The withered leaves drift down on listless airs; 
Beside the marsh the kildee now is shrill 
And now falls silent, as a madman will, 
Remembering old raptures, old despairs. 

And saving this there is no sound at all 
Except the trickle of a drying stream . . . 
And in this quiet, men that once were tall, 
And great events, and towering cities seem 
To dwindle from the mind and grow more small 
Than wayside dust, and foolish as a dream. 

-h§( 24 \>°- 

One of the numerous classes in Freshman English at this University 
was given an assignment of 1000 words on "Some Intimate Details of My 
Life and Development". In correcting the papers the instructor could not 
help realizing certain recurrent ideas. He collected these indirectly 
expressed ideas under thirteen divisions, added a brief newspaper squib, and 
placed them before his class. 

1. There are no such things as ideals. Our desires are all physical — 
cars, houses, food, women, clothes, money — they are what count. We 
reverence only God; we worship "success" — these are our passions. 

2. Whatever the most of those around us do is right. There is no 
other basis for guiding our behavior. We are afraid to be different. 

3. We have no feelings or emotions. Life holds no intense joys or 
sorrows. Life is not complicated. We understand it all. 

4. Mothers and Dads are not unique personalities. They are "good" 
and we value them because they are convenient and ready sources of supply. 

5. Life is even, mechanical, ordered, planned — a series of settled 
facts. There are no desires, dreams, or exultations. 

6. "Sin" does not always carry with it the terrible consequences that 
we have been taught it would. This surprises us mildly, but does not interest 

7. We think there is only one conception of "God". "God" is a 
Sunday school image. Religion is a set of prejudices learned at church — 
not an individual and personal experience. 

8. We like to drift — we dodge anything that calls for effort. We let 
others set the pace and if we can keep step we consider ourselves good. 

9. Life, as we have lived it, is very dull. The imaginations and emo- 
tions have no place in it. 

10. We have no ideas. Thinking comes as awkwardly and clumsily to 
us as does a rattle to a baby's hand. 

-■><{ 25 J§i~ 




11. Human civilization is to us a great blank. We are not interested 
in what they did, left, or thought. We are proud of this ignorance. 

12. We have no curiosity. There is no such thing as Beauty. 

13. We are smug and content — enormously self-satisfied if we are 
"as good as the average". We are afraid to excell. 

The Saturday News and Observer says that North Carolina ranks 41 or 
42 among the States in education and intellectual interests and achieve- 

J. O. M. 

The younger member of the band of Intellectuals comes bounding into 
the room. Before the august body assembled there he breathlessly words 
his newest idea. As he ramifies, a look of disgust settles over the faces of the 
group. One finally says, "Why, Aristotle said the same thing two thousand 
years ago'.' The younger member subsides in terror. A true intellectual, 
he has a horror of one who claims a thought already stated, equalled only 
by that of being considered unread. And he hasn't read Aristotle. 

Yet he has achieved what for him is original thought. More credit 
is due him, perhaps, than Aristotle. But he is damned and silenced for 
thinking the same thing as did that apparently omniscient writer. Faced by 
the displeasure of the group, he reads Aristotle j then the rest of the great 
thinkers. And what has her A huge amount of wisdom that constantly 
confuses him, and in place of the keen joy of nurturing an idea until it 
blossoms forth in splendor, enhanced because it is his own, he has only the 
dubious satisfaction of giving the withering blast of "Aw, Aristotle said that 
two thousand years ago". 

/. P. P. 

"Come on now! Get a little pep into this cheering. I hope a bolt of 
lightning will strike my grandmother in her left brass leg if this isn't the 
rottenest co-operation that I've ever received. 

"We have got the greatest university in the south here. And after that 
straight-from-the-shoulder talk by coach Collins it does look like you 
spineless men would take a little more interest in our team and support our 
forty-three fighting fools. Why the noise you fellows are making sounds 
just about as eifective as a halitosis treatment. We'll now hear from the 

-h|( 26 \> 

most popular man in the University, Professor Frank Graham. Boys, this 
is the son of Dr. Graham, one of the greatest presidents that this glorious 
University has ever had. Look him over boys, look him over boys! How 
much am I offered? Why Hell no! ten thousand dollars? My God, boy, this 
great and inspiring message he is going to give you on the Old Carolina 
Spirit is worth more than that! AH right, three cheers for Frank Graham. 
And don't say G-r-a-h-a-m — say Graam! Come on now — spit it out! 

"Well, I guess you slackers feel ashamed now. Why, for Carolina's 
sake, why can't we have the spirit now that was here in Dr. Graham's day? 
Everything else is modern and improved, but the Old Carolina Sprit is 
dead. I'll scratch a cootie on my back if it isn't. It is just like Adam said to 
Eve on the subject of apples. Well, there are some ladies present, so we'll 
come back to the fruit question later. Is the Carolina Spirit dead? Hell no, 
it is not! We'll prove it. 

"Mr. Paul John Weaver, A. A. G. O., Etc., will you please render that 
magnificent old song, Hark the Sound? Brother Weaver broadcasting!" 

A.B. W. 




Two items which appeared in the state papers recently bearing the 
dateline, "Chapel Hill", were of such a nature as to call for both laughter 
and tears. The first one stated that President Chase would lead the cheering 
sections during the Carolina-State game, and the other announced that 
William R. Kenan, Jr., had given $275,000 to the University to build a 
new stadium. 

The first of course was a ridiculous mistake, but the second is sadly true. 
At the time when the gift is made University officials are having to crawl 
on their knees before a reactionary state legislature to beg from them the 
necessary dollars to hold the University in the path of progress. 

We need a new library, a new music building, a school of fine arts, any 
number of things of real value, and we get $275,000 to erect a temple to 
the glory of Kenan and the Great God Football! A monument which will 
be needed once every two years. 

"•if 27 }§e- 


Etching In Gray 

Clinton Scollard 

November There is an old man garbed in dusty gray 

70;? , Who owns an orchard just across the way; 

In him I see no great-thewed Hercules 
Amid his apple trees, 
Just an old man in gray, 
Bearded and brown and bent, 
Yet well content 
With his Hesperides. 

He has more treasures in his globes of gold 

Than any fabled hero famed of old, 

For there is none to envy or invade ; 

He has more riches in his fruit and shade 

Than any opulent Croesus of to-day 

In all his hoarded wealth what e'er it be; 

Deeply he lessons me 

In one of life's most precious gifts — to find 

In my own narrow store a happy mind. 


*;{ 28 } 

The Importance of Shadows 

The Charwoman's Shadow. Lord Dunsany. 294 pp. New York. Putnam's. $2. 

According to the quaint old custom of the day, Mirandola, the beautiful and 
vivacious daughter of Ramon Alonzo, must needs marry. Incident to her marriage 
and conspicuously lacking was the dowry through which the charms of young ladies 
were greatly enhanced in the eyes of prospective husbands of the Golden Age. 

And having nothing to give to boot for a husband for his fair daughter, the 
Lord of the Tower and Rocky Forest was in great mental anguish. And one day he 
called his son, Ramon Alonzo Matthew-Mark-Luke-John to come before him in 
solemn conclave. Gold was needed and Ramon Alonzo was to gain it. 

Said the father: "For myself, if the getting of gold be an art as some have said, 
I am past the time for learning a new art; and, if it be a sin, my sins are over. Yet 
you my son may haply gather this great necessity for us, or this evil, whatever it be ; 
and if it be a sin, what is one more sin to youth? Not much I fear." 

For his son, the father had a plan. He was to go up into the mountain and study 
the Art, the Black Art, with an old magician who was indebted to the grandfather of 
Ramon Alonzo. 

And from this situation, Lord Dunsany builds his fantasy, — a fantasy weighted 
with an undercurrent of meaning, of criticism of the materialistic present. He even 
branches into the realm of philosophy, of worth and values, and he allows the old 
Magician to belittle the gold for which Ramon Alonzo has sold his shadow,— his 
self, his soul. 

An old Charwoman, who has also sold her shadow to the Magician arouses the 
fears and sympathies of Ramon Alonzo. And it is she who plaintively tells of the 
pleasures lost in the sale of one's shadow. 

Imps, magic shadows, fairies, and black art play lyric parts in this fantasy which 
of course ends happily. If the author has wished to make his fairy story the vehicle 
for veiled observations on the futility and danger of selling one's soul for the material 
things in the world, he has but followed the modern trend. Cabell sings with a 
louder voice and for different things, and Dunsany's countrymen are prolific in the 
production of the sugar-coated purpose-stories. 




So, having charged his fantasy with things not fantastical, Dunsany proceeds to 
throw in choice bits of satire. He allows Peter, the servant, to wait "not even 
wondering, as his whole attitude showed, but holding the horse in the road and 
merely waiting, as flowers and vegetables wait." But despite alien notes struck 
almost at random the fantasy remains, and the reader is almost sorry when the 
Magician takes with him his elves, imps and charms, like the Pied Piper, to the 
Country Towards Moon's Rising. 

J. S. Starr, Jr. 

Flaying the Puritan 

Early Autumn. By Louis Bromfield. 307 pp. New York. Frederick A. Stokes 
Company. $2. 

Louis Bromfield, author of "The Green Bay Tree", "Possession", and one 
chapter in "Bobbed Hair" (a novel by 20 authors), launches again into an exposition 
of New England decadence. He makes no bones of the matter, for "Early Autumn" 
is connected with his first two books by several interlocking characters. And we are 
to read, by the author's avowed intention, another "panel" in the "screen" of his 
elucidations on New England life — 

"... a New England which, in the migrations of its most vigorous citizens 
into the west, has spread over all America a thin veneer . . . pale, degenerate imita- 
tion of the positive fighting, masculine force represented by the Roundheads of 
Cromwell's day." 

Mr. Bromfield is in open rebellion against the shadow that New England casts 
behind the America which is leaving her, and he writes with a grievance that is, 
at times, near irritation. The "desiccated" Pentland family, headed by the anemic, 
hide-bound Anson, husband of Olivia (whose last attempt to resist submersion by 
Pentland Puritanism makes the plot), is constructed with a wealth of incident, 
characterization, and description; but with frequent faults of taste and a verbal 
preciosity that is surely self- and style-consciousness. The scanty palette, a lack of the 
baroque, particularly in the overuse of a fistful of favorite words, is too apparent 
to pass for a deliberate attempt at a sec effect. Anson, stoop-shouldered over his brain- 
child, "The Pentland Family and the Massachusetts Bay Colony," has not "followed 
her (Olivia) to her bedroom for fifteen years"; and, tempted by the whole-hearted 
wooing of O'Hara, a hot-blooded Irish politician, she considers running away with 
him. But circumstances are against her: the death of her invalid son, the care of the 
last of the Pentlands, from the dipsomaniac old John Pentland and she, his mad wife, 
to his hypochondriac sister— all aid in her defeat. Her only grant is the aiding of her 
daughter's elopement to freedom with an illegitimate youth. 

The appearance of a bar sinister that renders the whole Pentland family illegiti- 
mate seems unnecessary, for Mr. Bromfield's New England scarecrow, whose care- 
fully tattered broad-cloth flaps in the breeze of a departing nation, is too nicely 
apprehended and synthesized to withstand his satirical thrusts; it topples over easily — 
too easily. 

J. O. Marshall 

~°4j{ 30 }>°- 

Washington — The Man 

George Washington. By Rupert Hughes. 579 pp. William Morrow & Company. 
1926. $5. 

In the present volume Mr. Hughes tells the story of the young Washington, of 
his first thirty years, his ancestry, his childhood in Virginia, his education, frontier 
experiences, loves, ambitions and disappointments, the formative years when Wash- 
ington was commander-in-chief of the Virginia troops, in hot water all the time, 
and, at the same time, hopelessly in love with Sally Fairfax, the wife of his best 
friend. He concludes the present work with Washington married to Martha Curtis, 
squiring it magnificently at Mount Vernon, loyal to England, and concerned with 
the custody and increase of his property. But he promises to complete the work in 
another volume, "George Washington, the Rebel and the Conservative." 

Mr. Hughes presents a narrative based on authentic materials that revolutionize 
the current ideas of Washington and the American colonies in the eighteenth century, 
such as Washington's diaries recently edited by John C. Fitzpatrick and numerous 
studies of the period that have been familiar to historians for some time, but not to 
the public. He uses directly the writings of Washington, skillfully making the book 
as nearly as possible an autobiography rather than a biography of the young romantic. 
His object is "to find out as far as possible and to repeat as faithfully as possible just 
what George Washington was, did, said, wrote, thought, and why and how." In 
addition he strives especially to destroy the pious myths of Weems, the young-lady's- 
school emendations of Sparks, the sage and God-like hero of Irving, Meade, and 
Marshall. He takes particular pains to state, even, that George was too frugal to 
throw a dollar across the Potomac,- — he threw a stone; to show wherein he could 
lie and did; to substitute for the rigidly correct and formal letters published by 
Sparks the mis-spelled, rambling, boyish, passionate letters and bad poems the young 
Washington really wrote. 

"All other (of Washington's) biographers" says Hughes, "have tacitly assumed 
that he knew the future and builded himself grandly for it. They have looked 
backwardly upon him through the dazzling aureole of his apotheosis. But that was 
not the way he saw the world. He had to grope for his faith and he missed few of 
the pitfalls, the thorns and the torments of the way. No more did he miss the 
primroses, the festivals, the dances and sports and romances ... As a god, Wash- 
ington was a woeful failure; as a man he was tremendous." During these years 
Washington enjoyed himself as a crack woodsman and surveyor. He was one of the 
best map makers in America, a farmer, a tobacco planter, a manager of slave and 
white labor, a fisherman, huntsman, local politician, stock breeder, real estate specu- 
lator, race-track enthusiast and country gentleman. He was uniformly successful 
in one thing only from the start. That was business. He could always make money, 
and he laid in these years the foundations of a tremendous fortune as a land specu- 
lator. In love, in war, in politics, his first ventures were uniformly failures. 

No lover of Washington can fail to enjoy this sympathetic treatment of him in 
a narrative that winds skillfully into the life of aristocratic, colorful Virginia with 








its charming women, courageous gentlemen, baronial estates, and all its pageantry 
and joy, spiced by a dash of romantic intrigue. No lover of history can fail to enjoy 
this authentic picture of political chicanery and frontier bush-whacking that charac- 
terized Franco-British rivalry in America until the genius of Pitt converted it into 
a mighty campaign. One of the chief features of the work is the careful study of 
Braddock's campaign, and Washington's connection with the scandal attaching to 
the killing of the French ambassador by Washington's men, for which the French 
called him an assassin. In the account Washington certainly does not shine as a 
paragon of wisdom or honor. It was not a field of honor on which he was engaged, 
but of war, which is seldom glorious at close quarters. Braddock, the French and 
the Indians, as well as Washington, are given fair treatment in this account. The 
author has profited by his experience as novelist and historian. The book ranks in 
interest with Bower's Jefferson and Hamilton. 

The romance, drama, and history of this volume are contributions to our resources 
for appreciating Washington and his times. Such materials are barely hinted at in 
other biographies of Washington, and readers of this volume will eagerly await the 
second one treating the period in which the young, romantic, and bucolic squire grows 
to the stature described in the author's final estimate of him. "A man of honor, a 
lover and benefactor of his kind, a man whose works live after him in increasing 
glory — the standard by which all other statesmen and patriots are measured — and 
found wanting." 

R. B. House 

Negro— North by East 

Nigger Heaven. By Carl Van Vechten. Alfred A. Knopf. $2.50. 

In the growing number of novels concerned with the Negro, this is the third 
to picture the life of the upper classes in a large Northern metropolis. Jessie Fauset's 
"There Is Confusion" and Walter White's "Flight" have acquainted the reader 
with the details of life and the problems of sensitive intellectual colored people. 
These two writers, both Negroes, are too close to the problem and too carefully 
concerned with its clarification to rank as great novelists. Their work, though force- 
ful, never departs from the realm of propaganda. Their characters are types manipu- 
lated for the sake of their ideas. They do not succeed, as have Julia Peterkin in 
"Green Thursday" and DuBose Heyward in "Porgy", in presenting individuals as 
subject matter for art. In "Nigger Heaven" Mr. Van Vechten just misses doing for 
the Northern Negro what these two latter writers have done for the Southern ones. 
He has taken their dilemma too much to heart with the result that a very fine artistic 
creation degenerates into a vehicle for sociological observations. 

The story itself is a powerful one. Byron Kasson, a would-be writer, is a very 
real person. With his perverse pride, his sensitiveness to imagined slights from his 
own race and the whites, his moodiness, and lack of emotional balance, he embodies 
the worst characteristics against which the race must fight. Mary Love, the woman 
who might have saved him from himself, is good and intelligent. But whether the 
author meant to give this impression or not, she possesses the very natural but 

-•»$ 32 }§*•■- 

It is 

; incvit 

able fhat 




fall also 


unattractive self-consciousness noticeable in many of her class 
Byron should succumb to the exotic sensualist, Lasca Sartori 
is inevitable and the final scene is one of convincing power. 

Even when he is expounding theories Mr. Van Vechten is an interesting write- 
When it comes to description of Harlem life his observations are keen and their 
transcription vivid. He shows his customary genius for dialogue. And when he 
sticks to the story his skill with plot and incident is amazing. It is rather curious that 
he should have his hero-writer impressed with the dangers of propaganda writing 
and yet fall into the same pit himself. Unlike Byron, he avoids a plot dealing 
directly with strife between the races, but his theories and his observations of Harlem 
life mutilate an otherwise artistic piece of fiction. 

But undoubtedly it is the best novel yet written about this particular milieu of 
Negro life. Therefore everyone who is interested in the sociological problem of race- 
relations will value Mr. Van Vechten's insight into the life and thought of the 
intellectual Negro. And everyone who seeks the bizarre, raw color and primitive 
emotion, cannot fail to be fascinated by the background and the happenings in 
"Nigger Heaven". 

Elizabeth Lax Green 



College— Out of School 

Proud Revelry. Amber Lee. Thos. Seltzer. 304 pp. $2.50. 

"He was not unique. Boys do not lose their physical innocence lightly. Nature 
ordains the process painless and provides thereto an aftermath of horror . . . This 
thing was spiritual murder." Suave, sensual, casual, super-sophisticated Anthony 
Sherrad. Seventeen and a rich man's son. 

Miss Lee portrays the character of a handsome Apollo-like youth who drinks his 
father's scotch under the paternal nose, who has an over-supply of sex appeal, and 
who cares little whether the world spins or not. The plot is not deep although the 
outcome is doubtful. 

W. W. Anderson 

Myrtle and Gunpowder 

Cordelia Chantrell. Meade Minnigerode. Putnam. 246 pp. $2.00. 
"Duty is duty, and honor is honor, and if hearts must be broken there 

> help 

for it." So says Preston Baimbridge, the hero of Meade Minnigerode's rubber stamp 
novel, Cordelia Chantrell. This sentence is more than a choice bit of melodrama. 
It is the spirit of the book expressed in nineteen words; it sets the pace for a tale as 
antiquated and stilted as an East Lynn performance. Mr. Minnigerode has merely 
added one more to that long list of God-bless-the-South Civil War novels in which 
the characters are noble and the events are improbable. Such staginess is especially 
distressing to one who has read Ellen Glasgow's Romantic Comedians. Cordelia 
Chantrell refurbishes the Old South tradition which Miss Glasgow so successfully 
laughed out of literary court. 

~4 33 }§*•- 




The story concerns Cordelia Chantrell, a dauntless, impetuous daughter of Dixie 
who is in love with Preston Baimbridge, a transplanted Yankee of sterling character. 
Unfortunately the young man has a conscience as well as a heart, and when war 
is declared he becomes a Federal agent in the Bahamas. Cordelia serves the Confed- 
eracy in the capacity of female spy, and a typically romantic coincidence brings them 
together as enemies. Here the reader is treated to a double struggle between love and 
duty which the hero settles by committing suicide. A bare outline such as this is 
seldom fair to a novel, but it is more than fair to Cordelia Chantrell. Detailed treat- 
ment would but emphasize the absurdities which form the plot of this E. P. Roe 
school atavism. 

Mr. Minnigerode is best known for Lives and Times, a series of biographies, and 
The Fabulous Forties, an excellent genre picture of American life during the 1840's. 
The style of these previous works obtrudes in his first novel. The story is supposed to 
have been pieced together from several diaries — a device which makes necessary a 
mass of monotonous back references and quotations. In this way the biographer's 
craving for careful documentation is satisfied. It is annoying to have even a poor 
plot interspersed with remarks culled from imaginary diaries and equally annoying 
to deal with fictitious characters clothed in the habiliments of reality. There was no 
excuse for turning Cordelia into a historical personage. 

The effort to secure atmosphere is rather painful. Each costume is given elaborate 
notice, books and songs of the period are ruthlessly dragged in and all specimens of 
1860 patois are enclosed in precise quotation marks. Though well written in spots, 
Cordelia Chantrell hovers between dull delineation and rampant melodrama. The 
Old South, complete with gallant blades, self-sacrifice and moonlight, has been 
revived — and it proves to be as ludicrous as ever. 

R. K. Fowler 

Hot Saturday. Ha 

Treading the Psychopath 
261 pp. $2.50. 

urs from the heart 

rvey Fergusson. Knopf. ~6 1 pp. 

In this novel Mr. Fergusson lifts twenty-four scorching 
of a New Mexico summer and uses them as a background for some events in the life 
of Ruth Bruck. From the somewhat sketchy development it would seem that Ruth 
is the blood sister of Serena Blandish and the step-sister of Iris March. Like the 
former she treads a circuitous path to matrimony, and like the latter she is afflicted 
with a certain sexual ebulliency. Her dual desires to become wife and paramour make 
of Ruth an intriguing personality — quite in the recent style of psychopathic heroines. 

Practically all the action takes place in one day — a unique but slightly cumber- 
some trick of development. Constant references to Ruth's past life break the 
continuity of the narrative, carrying the reader back ten years when the affairs of 
the moment have seized his attention. Also, in order to gain respectable length, the 
author has resorted to a disgraceful amount of padding. An intrinsically racy plot 
is slowed down by superfluous conversation, incident and verbiage. The situation is 
weakened by unnecessary prolongation. One feels that Mr. Fergusson has achieved 
a fairly clever novel at the expense of a possibly great short story. 

- M 34 }>■■■ 

Jackson Tennessee 

(Continued from page Jo) 

She hesitated a moment and leaned weakly against the door of the car. 
From the pockets of her uniform she pulled a string of crumpled articles: 
silk stockings, handkerchiefs, gold beauty pins, a crepe night gown. . . . 

"I've been stealin' from the white folks for yeahs," she whimpered. 
"I-I was takin' these to Johnie May for her goin'-away present . . . when 
I run into . . . the camp meetin'." She dropped her head on her arm and 
cried softly. "Is you gon' lock me upr" 

"Get into this car — you — you — " Old Dr. Hancock snapped the door 
open. "I'll give you just forty minutes to get back around to Mrs. Hender- 
son's . . . and if I ever catch you up to such a trick again I'll take a stick 
and half-kill you!" 

-4 35 fe°~ 

The plot is triangular. There is Ruth, who has missed several marital chances, '7 he 

and is becoming slightly worried. There is Wilbur P'adden, a rich, unsophisticated ^ \ UQLINA 
young Northerner who finds in Ruth his ideal girl. There is John Romer, charmingly 
unconventional, who has come West for his health. Ruth is attracted to Romer, and .VI AuAZlINh 
is also anxious to annex Wilbur as a husband. One Saturday night a drunken ex-suitor 
reveals some intimate bit of Ruth's past history. Wilbur leaves; Ruth goes to Romer's .<>i,i<>.. 

room and spends the night with him. Next day Wilbur returns and apologizes for 

being; so stupid as to doubt her purity. » ; ; 

b r r ■ _ T , „ November 

R. A. Fowler 


Next Month or Later 

Coming numbers of this volume of The Magazine will present a short 
story, "Amateur," by JOHN V. A. W 7 EAVER, author of "In American" 
and other verse ... A negro sketch by E. C. L. ADAMS, author of "Con- 
garee Sketches" to be published soon by The University of N. C. Press 
. . . "Ethics in Journalism", an article by BYRON WHITE ... a short 
story by PIERSON RICKS and one by KATHERINE JOHNSON make 
up the latest prose acquisitions of The Magazine. 



the score is close*. 

Keep cool with 

GaodG rap * 

That good-grape drink 

The Dining- Hall in Durham With a Collegiate 

Welcome-In, "Where Tilings to Eat Are Different", is the dining hall in Dur- 
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has the food prepared the way you like it. 


Whcr« Thlnst To Eat Ar* Dlff«r«nt 

Opposite Washington Duke 

For the best in Furniture 
and Rugs See 

Royal & Borden Co. 

Complete Housefurnishers 
Durham, N. C. 

Stetson "D" 

and Furnishers 


Stetson "D" Clothes and 
John Ward Shoes 

All Stetson D Clothes pressed free 
at our shop for entire school year. 




University Consolidated 
Service Plants 


Offices in Tankersley Building 

Next to Postoffice 

Telephone 69 

Eubanks Drug Co. 

Dependable Druggists 
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Phone 45 


The Writers 


PAUL GREEN, of this University faculty, is the author of a collected 
volume of plays, "The Lonesome Road". Two more volumes are being 
prepared, one of which will contain the two plays to be produced on Broad- 
way soon. He was also the editor of The Reviezver . . . KATHERINE 
JOHNSON is an undergraduate who came to the University from St. 
Mary's . . . VIRGINIA LAY will do a woodcut for each number of The 
Magazine . . . SARA HARDT is known as a former contributor to The 
Reviewer, and a contributor to The Mercury, The Magazine, and many 
others . . . CLINTON SCOLLARD is now associated with the little 
group at Winter Haven, Florida, which is endeavoring to inaugurate a 
poetry movement in that state. He is the author of some dozens of 
volumes of verse . . VICTOR STARBUCK, paradoxically enough is an at- 
torney in the city of Asheville. He has published one volume of verse . . . 
LILITH SHELL lives in Beaver Falls, Pennsylvania. We are publishing 
a poem which had been accepted for The Reviewer . . . ELLEN M. 
CARROLL is from Charleston, the city of Cordelia Chantrell. She is a 
contributor to numerous Southern publications. 

-•$ 38 )•>• 






Hear the Brunswick Panatrope, the 
greatest musical achievement of 
the time. 

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106 West Main St. Phone J- 1951 




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In U. N. C. Public Service 

PHONE 158 
Promptness Neatne 

University eMen_, 

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sames U'hcru they 

Consider their appearances 

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Standard for cfTflcn^ 
for a Quarter of a Qentury. 

Pritchard -Patterson 


University Outfitters 


Christian Ci> King 
Printing Company 

"Craftbuilt ^Printing" 

Printers of College Publications that 
are distinctly different 



Musical Comedy 



Change of program Monday, 

Wednesday, Friday, Saturday. 

3 Shows Daily — 5 Shows Saturdays 

and Holidays. 

Pretty Girls, Beautiful Wardrobe 

Especial Values 
in All Kinds of 
Athletic Equip- 

Book Exchange 


Blue Ribbon 
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Special colored blocks to conform 

to Class, Sorority or Frat colors 

for your banquets 

Dial L-963 

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Durham, N. C. 


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From coast to mountains, 
we sell and apply roofing 
for every type of building. 
We cover anything from a 
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Enjoy Life At 

Good foods are like 
good f r i e n d s— t li e 
more of them we 
have the better we 
enjoy life. 

Carolina's night-time 



When You've Missed 

The Last Bus 

and you are looking for "Bull" 
Durham to bring you to the Hill — 
go to the Washington Duke Coffee 

Your "root bif" sandwich will hit the 

spot— and the coffer's real Java. 

Meet your friends, there. 

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jorth carolina 

Controlled by the Publications Union 

Julian Starr, Jr., Editor R. K Fowler, Assistant Editor 

L. H. McPherson, Business Manager 

H. J. Schwartz, Advertising ManagtT • G. K. Dacy, Circulation Manager 

Killian Barwick, Assistant Biisiness Manager 


JANUARY, 1927 



Deflorescence ( Verse) Virginia Lay 

Ethics in Journalism (An Article) Byron White 

p [ ( Verse) Jacques Le Clercq 

Pariah (A Story) Katharine Johnson 

Renunciation (Verse) Jacques Le Clercq 

How a Marvelous Phenomenon Was 

Attested True M. L. Radoff 

Big Charleston (Sketch) E. C. L. Adams 

The Advancing South (Article) H. M. Jones 

Mentioning the Unmentionable Gerald W. Johnson 

The Pasture 

Vigil (Verse) J. A. Caldwell, Jr. 

Book Bazaar 
The Writers 

•: Carolina Magazine, Box i£L^ 

^ ^g^^...<^(^>...^g^^:.^ 




By Virginia Lay 

Trees — 


Of their leafy burdens. 


That quiver 

At their loss; 

And maples 

That blush 

A shameful crimson. 

The well-covered oaks 

That look on 

And shake their foliage in derision, 

Little know that a crueler lover 

Will leave them 


Gaunt, bitterly shamed, 

For the moon 

To mock slyly 

Through the slender branches of the poplars. 

The virgin pines 


Like wistful nuns, 


Of things they cannot know. 

And the cedars 

Draw their priestly robes 

Close — 

Talking in monotones. 


Among spiralling leaves, 


The gipsy lover 

Lies sleeping to the wind. 




Ethics in Journalism 

By Byron White 

' r he ridiculous flaying up of 
the Hall-Mills case in daily 
papers for the past two months 
has raised a question as to the 
standard by which news is 
fudged these days. The equally 
famous Valentino-Eliot affair 
clearly demonstrated that some- 
thing was awry, either with the 
reading public or with the papers 
themselves. Mr. White, in his 
article gives us something of 
the background against which 
today's journalistic standards are 


wo days before Rudolph Valentino died, 

sheet, the New York Graphic, in two and 
one half inch type this streamer: "RUDY 
DEi\D." In very small type on the left side 
of the above was the semi-explanatory state- 
ment: "Cry Startles Film World as Sheik Ral- 
lies." The head sold thousands of additional 
papers. But what of the ethics of the incident? 
Yes, what about the ethics of the Valentino 
death headlines? And then, what about the 
ethics of the so-called profession of journalism? 
The reader may think it strange to consider the ethics of journalism when he 
visualizes the Hearst chain of papers and its International and Universal 
News Service ; when he calls to mind the thousands of sheets that subscribe 
to Brisbane's editorial column ; and when he thinks of the publicity agents 
employed by colleges, big business plants, private families, government 
departments, charitable organizations, and Christian denominations. How- 
ever, far from the rim of the average citizen's knowledge, discussions of 
theoretical journalistic ethics and experiments in ethical journalism by prac- 

■•€{ 3 ►- 



tical workers in the "fourth estate" are going on. Such men use boiler plate 
copy for paper weights and start fires with publicity agent's propaganda ; 
such gentlemen are newspaper men instead of journalists, Babbitts and Big 
Business Men. 

Ethics is practically a synonym for moral standards. Ethics, as in the 
case of morals, is usually a matter of individual interpretation and applica- 
tion. "Virtue is knowledge," said Socrates. Hence with all its vast facilities 
for acquiring knowledge a modern newspaper ought to be a model of right- 

It is generally acknowledged that two distinct ethical schools of present 
day journalism exist. They are usually catalogued as the emotional and the 
intellectual. The Hearst papers, race journals, and yellow sheets, are typical 
in the field of emotion. The New York Times, the United Slates Daily, 
and the Christian Science Monitor, are representative models in the thinking 

Many gradations are found between the two classifications. The 
Scripps-Howard chain, for instance, has a penchant for the Hearst methods ; 
the southern press, except in speaking of the Ku Klux Klan, the Negroes, 
or the Catholics, is inclined towards the intellectual appeal. 

Until the time of the Civil War when newspaper work was an altogether 
personal affair — the editor was usually the galley boy also — ethics did not 
trouble the journalistic toiler. But after the internal conflict, with the 
growth of large cities, the influx of Southern-European immigrants, 
improved mechanical methods of production, and the perfection of the tele- 
graph, things assumed a different aspect. The Bennetts. Danas and Pulitzers 
entered the field. Journalism became a Big Business. The resulting lack 
of soul, morals, and ethics, was the final conseuence. 

Before and during the Civil War American newspapers had the same 
lack of physical appeal in make-up and stories that is characteristic of the 
English and Continental press of today. Advertisements appeared on the 
front page. Sub-heads were unknown. The declaration of Civil War was 
announced in the New York Evening Post in a column width fourteen-point 
one-line head: "CIVIL WAR." The follow-up stories were usually headed 
"THE WAR." In one metropolitan paper, for example, jewelry, insur- 
ance and bank advertisements were given the two outside columns of the 
front page, and the third column was devoted to the War. The conservative 

-4 4 )§•»- 

New York Times had the largest one-column width headlines when peace 
was declared: "UNION," in twenty-four point type, and underneath: 
"VICTORY," "PEACE," in fourteen point type. 

Journalism, however, took on a more ochre hue after the conflict. Police 
news was often labelled as a department — "THE GALLOWS" is a fair 
sample. A Chicago paper gave a hanging the following headline: 
"JERKED TO JESUS." The Chicago Times of December 7, 1876, in 
reporting a Brooklyn theatrical disaster cried out: "BROOKLYNS BAKE." 
In the same daily, Custer's charge was said to have been "HELL'S 

Five years before the outbreak of the Spanish-American War Hearst 
and his imitators were going well. Streamers, habitual use of forty-eight 
point type, run-one heads, and numerous banks served as front page edi- 
torials appealing the hate reflex of the unknowing and unthinking citizen. 
Garbled and untrue news reinforced the yellow movement. The apogee 
was reached when the leader and his pack brought about the Spaish-Ameri- 
can War. 

From the wrangle over Cuba until the World War a decided improve- 
ment was apparent in many journals and a dangerous yellowish decadence 
was obvious in others. Comics were introduced about this time and they 
helped tremendously in increasing the circulation of all papers that dared 
to adopt them. Hearst and others of his ilk augmented the yellowishness 
with features of all sorts, syndicated articles, and funny pages which 
appeared simultaneously from coast to coast. The New York World, after 
descending to the depths, the lowest pits of journalistic baseness, began to 
spruce up a little. It still followed queer make-up ideas and used big heads 
and streamers for ordinary events, but its editorials were fearless, intellec- 
tual, liberal. In 1913 the World established a Bureau of Accuracy and Fair 
Play (somewhat of a Sword of Damocles idea) which practically insured 
honest reporting. Many of the better papers about this time inaugurated 
the practice of submitting hurtful or scandalous news to the parties con- 
cerned to ascertain if the facts were true before printing them. A few 
sheets, such as the New York Times, refused to stoop to the lugubrious 
colored pages. Most of them, however, adopted the picture or Sabbath-day 
roto-gravure feature. 

It was in 1900, a little before these moralistic innovations, that the Rev. 
Charles M. Sheldon was given entire charge of the Topeka Daily Capital 
for one week. His intent was to make it a Christian paper; he produced 






somewhat of a daily catechism with black type above the truisms. How he 
succeeded in printing the sheet that week is beyond me for no employee was 
allowed to smoke, drink, or cuss. The last regulation must have been almost 
unbearable. Prize fights, vice, and crime stories were labelled in the context 
as evil, and a devilish cause and pietistic remedy were suggested. A Saturday 
afternoon edition took the place of the Sunday run. And not a line of 
national or local news was in the paper! The featured story was headed: 
TION." The Sermon on the Mount (doubtless news to most of the read- 
ers) occupied another column. The rest of the front page contained a 
sermon by Sheldon and Biblical quotations and teachings. But the experi- 
ment was an astounding financial success. In seven days the circulation 
jumped from 15,000 to 367,000. Editions were printed in Topeka, Chicago, 
New York, and London from the proofs of the original matrices in Topeka. 

Dr. Sheldon laconically expressed his opinion when he said: "The great- 
est examples we have of ideal reporting of wrong doing are in the New 
Testament, and they are ideal because they do not attempt f report 
improper detail." ' f 

The Sheldon empirical detour doubtless It i many newspapers to garb 
themselves in go-to-meeting clothes on Sunday. For soon after this ser- 
mons began to arnear in the Sabbath day editions inserted between fire-arm 
and female-helj. eeded advertisements. Editorials telling the subscribers 
how to live better' and bigger lives added to the general excitement. Edgar 
Guest-flavored poetry and Frank Crane-style editorials began to tone up the 
morals of scores of journals. 

The climax of this reforming wave was reached when the Christian 
Science Monitor was founded in 1908 "to injure no one but to bless all 
mankind." It is probable that the famous Boston periodical was the first to 
adopt a rigid standard and stick by it. No train wrecks, automobile accidents, 
steamer disasters, or divorce testimony, found a place in its columns. When 
the Titanic sank not a single name of the 1500 men and women who died 
was published. It merely printed a list of the survivors. Yet it was not a 
reform paper in the common connotation of the word. The news columns 
were not colored by Christian Science fads or foibles. The editor.' .Is were 
of a diversified, intellectual, literary quality. Little suppressing was done 
and no goose-step crusades were indulged in to clean up the evil of the 

- ig( 6 )9h- 

Other papers imitated the Monitor, but none ever equalled or emulated 
it. Practically all the dailies, even Hearst, however, fell in step with the 
go-to-meeting innovators. Nationally known evangelical preachers and 
Sunday school teachers like Dr. Parkhurst, Billy Sunday, and William 
Jennings Bryan, made fabulous hoards by syndicating their God inspired 
messages. A sentimental wave for a moralistic press seemed to be sweeping 
the country. Unfortunately a few papers became dogmatic and smugly 
sanctimonious. Still typical is the celestial, blessed, Nordic, leader in Ral- 
eigh, the News and Observer. 

Two years after the establishing of the Monitor the first state-adopted 
code of ethics was drawn up in Kansas. Notable sections of it are: 



Lies. We condemn against truth: 

( 1 ) The publication of fake illustrations of men and events 
of news interest, however marked the similarity, without an 
accompanying statement that they are not real pictures of the 
evei • person but only suggestive imitations. 
Injustice. V\ e condemn aga ^st justice: 

( 1 ) The practice i f reporters making detectives of them- 
selves in their endeavors' to investigate the guilt or innocence of 
those under suspicion. 

(3) ... Certain crimes against private morality which are 
revolting to our finer sensibilities should be ignored entirely ; . . . 




Views are the impressions, beliefs, or opinions which are pub- 
lished in a paper whether from the editorial staffs of the same, 
outside contributors, or secured interviews. 
A distinction. 

We hold that whenever a publication confines the bulk of its 
views to any particular line of thought, class of views, or side of 
a mooted question, it becomes to that extent a class publication, 
and inasmuch ceases to be a newspaper. 
Using this last clause, "A distinction" as a criterion we conservatively 
estimate that 75% of American newspapers are class publications. 

(Continued on page 32) 

4 7 jfr- 




Jacques Le Clercq 

His face loomed gaunt as his own fields in blight, 
His heart, drained to the ultimate despair, 
He staggered blindly, a wounded beast in flight, 
The brand ached. Silence fell upon him there. 
He stood. His eyes scanned Heaven. He framed a frown. 
His ash-white lips trembled. Sudden and stark 
His laughter rasped. A gibbous moon went down. 
{God whimpered in the dark! ) 

Poet * 

I - 
Jacques Le Clercq 

What a fool you were to chase 

The clock around its twelve-eyed face, 

Believing God ordained you write 

Lyric ineptitudes all night, 

Crass, yellowed foolscap on a shelf, 

Dead and futile as vourself. 

Who gave you impudence to think 
Two livings lay in pen and ink, 
When selling bonds to friends of friends 
Would have spared you such hard ends? 
R. I. P. Your vain parade 
Ended ; your clever brother paid 
Half your debts and almost all 
The expense of funeral. 

-h6{ 8 )§►••- 


By ^Catherine Johnson 

It is hot. The wind from the desert burns. The yellow cactus blooms are 
shriveled. The mesquite leaves hang limply. The desert beyond San 
Felipe glares white beneath the blue flame of the sky. My eyes — my 
eyes are so tired. They burn, too. They are afire. I wonder can I move them 
if I try. The houses — cracked adobe — squat, sunbaked. Sunflowers, ugly, 
hardy. Oleander leaves — gray, green, oleander blossoms heavy with dust, 
white still underneath the gray. The whole Mexican town. Pigs — black, 
little, stiff-tailed pigs. They grunt as they scamper through the houses of 
my people. Tucy Garza, wake up. Your forty children, scratching and 
squirming. Is there no place I can hide from people? I cannot talk to them. 
I am helpless before their unseeing eyes — 

Quiet, please, muchachos. It is not long, now. The sehorita's head is 
very tired. ( As if they cared for the sehorita's head, or anything about her. ) 
Study please for just five minutes. ( They won't of course. There's nothing 
I can do about it.) 

Poor, dirty, little children, ridiculous in their purple trousers and their 
red and black and yellow dresses. Straight greasy black hair. Maria's child 
died. Josephine has new ear-rings today and a ten-cent perfume. Her dress 
is spotted with grease and there is a big hole in her stocking. I wish my teeth 
were white and shining like hers. The air is heavy with heat and garlic and 
perspiration. That back screen must be mended. Flies swarm. That chalk 
ought to be picked up. It's crumbling all over the floor. The blackboard is 
smeared. The cracked glass over the picture of George Washington. Papers 
and pencils and dust and glare — chewing gum wrappers and apple cores on 
the floor. 

Be quiet one moment longer, Juan. Jesusa, clear your desk. The third 
row is worse than it has ever been. Ramos, I'm surprised. ( I'm not really. 
None of them will do anything for me. ) You were to see that it is kept in 
perfect order. Agarita, I wish that you'd stop by the Red Cross building 



and see Miss Flores about your cough. No, Juan, the 13th through the 
20th. Through, not to. File out quietly, muchachos. Will you erase the 
board, little Miquel ? Gracias. Adios. 

I am so tired. Sniffling, unkempt children. They sing tonight at the 
Fiesta — my girls in white with flowers and heavy perfumes. The palm- 
thatched booths will be hung with lanterns and flags of white and red and 
green. Confetti and tamales. The thrum of guitars. "La Paloma" drifting 
across the 'cequia to haunt the Americans and wake them, restless, from their 
sleep. Tomorrow the plaza will be deserted in the glare of the sun. It will 
be dirty with paper bags and corn shucks. Tonight my girls will sing with 
their sweet voices. They will be happy — I would give ten years of my life 
to know that happiness. Tomorrow, they will be silent and afraid. They 
will not meet my eyes. I would give ten thousand books to experience their 

The roses are dead. I must throw them out before I go. The flies hover 
thicker than ever. Juanita squirmed and scratched all day. The Red Cross 
may help her — but it will have to go first into her little wretched home. 
She thumbed her nose at me for interfering. 

Paper, notebook, pen, my glasses. That back window ought to be shut 
against the dust. Somebody took the apple and orange Jesusa brought me. 
Poor little beggars. This screen sags. I must remember to bring some locks. 

How many times I have closed this door and opened it. I stumbled 
there yesterday. My feet are tired. The annual rains wash in torrents 
down the slope. I have been drenched many times. Then the sun bakes the 
ruts that trip me. 

Buenos dias, sefiora. Your children are doing very well indeed. I enjoy 
having them in my classes. Yes, it is a nice day. 

You horrible fat devil with your tongue in your cheek. You leer at me 
because you think that I assume the grand manners of the Americanos. I 
hate myself because you, one of my own people, are repulsive to me, you 
fat loose-garmented creature with oily black hair — mountain of flesh, 
smelling of onions and tequila. I hate you even as you hate me. You think 
that because I dress neatly and have an education of sorts, I am turning 
from my people, trying to rid myself of you and my kind. Clod, if I could. 
Lucy Garza, you are a fool. You can not get away from them, even though 
they despise you — you with your spectacles. You are ugly, yourself, and 
Mexican girls are beautiful. You are fat and the other girls are slender and 
straight. No wonder they sneer contemptuously. 

- 4 1 ►- 

id heavy. Another day 
is hard like adobe. The 
clay for floors. Naked 
one room. Sunflowers, 
tieath the dusty surface, 

I turned my heel again. My feet are tired- 
like this and they will drop quite off. The groin 
fences — pickets loose and falling. The houses 
little brown babies, and chickens and pigs all 
pepper trees, oleanders with blossoms that, und 
still are white. 

Buenos dias, Senora. Como esta usted esta mahanar 

Another one. She smiles as she rocks complacently, then hisses poison- 
ous words to the children in front of her little pig-sty. I am uncomfortable 
among these women. They smile and whisper among themselves about the 
hang of my skirt, or my fat body, or my superior air. 

Sand and clay, white and dazzling. Hairless Mexican dogs, fat and 
wabbly like the women. 

It is so hot. That Ford must have been running for an hour. The 
steam is rising like a geyser. 

Buenos dias, Miguel. Yes, yes, it is a beautiful day. Yes, I want to go 
to the fiesta tonight, but I have so many papers to correct. 

Miguel, you beautiful thing. Glorious barbarian. Your eyes are dark 
pools that sleep above volcanos. What would I give to have those fires 
flame out, your hands on mine, your lips — your lips — Lucy Garza, you are 
fat and ugly. There ire bumps on your chin. What would a beautiful 
Indian be doing with an intellectual chump: My God, I have a mind. I 
must be using it. For what did my kind Americanos drag me from my 
father's ranch-house to be taught their ways, their books, their thoughts — 
only to be shoved back lorever into a place where I can belong no longer? 
Miguel, I would make a good wife for you, for I am clean, and I could 
teach our children. They would be beautiful like you. I could make you 
comfortable. I would not mind if some nights you should go and drink 
tequila and dance with gay painted women with black silk hair. We should 
have a Ford and fat, dirty children, but they'd be mine. Yet, you do not 
want me, even for the mother of your brood. Even if you were drunk, you 
could not fool yourself. 

My mind beats on in circles. Thoughts strike against my eyes. I know 
that they will burst presently. The glare. That shiny thing. A piece of 
tinfoil glittering. And I as wasted as that paper. 

Plod, plod, plod. My feet ache. And my eyes. These people sneer and 
whisper. Drag, drag. My skirt sags, I know, and my hair is stringing 
tiredly and my broad nose is all ashine. The church. What have I to do 

--■•§{ 11 }§*»- 

/ he 




with a sacred heart: It is sinning to go inside when all of me is in revolt. 
The sun's so bright. The sky's so blue. And San Felipe is blinding white, 
huddled here at the foot of the hill. The church. The door is heavy. I am 
too tired to struggle with it. Dear God, the green dark. 

. I wonder where the echoes go. Where will I go who am only an echo? 
My feet strike sharply on the uncarpeted concrete. The sunflowers droop 
listlessly in the cracked bottle. The awkward figure over the altar. Mary, 
mother of Christ, poor oil painting. I'd Jaugh at that disproportioned arm 
if I did not love you. Fat fingers and ugly child. Can I burn a candle, 
Mary: Poor Christ. The body is ugly and the nailed feet are hideous. But 
the blood from the thorns seems real. And the eyes are sad. Did Christ 
have a cross to bear like mine, Mary? Forgive me, Mary, mother. Nothing 
is real. Nothing matters. 

I try so hard, Mary, to take myself out of my despair. But there is no 
purpose — no end. My children ignore me. Their mothers resent me. And 
I try, oh, I do, Mary, I do. My family does not understand. Miguel tol- 
erates me merely. What are books and education compared to living? 
Tears? God, I am a fool. There's still sunshine and a blue, blue river that 
winds mercifully across the edge of the desert. I did not mean to cry. The 
church is cool and quiet. It is not peaceful. Nowhere can I hide from 
myself. Why, oh Mary, why? 

I did not mean to let the door slam. How bright the sun is. Oh, be 
careful, brown baby. You'll be run over. They are American girls bringing 
the laundry to Maria — lovely young things. They belong. I can not talk 
to them. They make me seem fat and clumsy. Their chatter makes my 
words ponderous and ill at ease. These Americans — kind enough. They 
sent me to school. Why should I learn their way and be forced to live mine? 
Text books and chalk and alkali dust. My father loathes me. My mother 
doesn't count. 

I thought I was never going to get home. The house is ramshackly, with 
the glass broken out of the front window and the fence bulging toward the 
middle. My father flings bottles regardlessly when my mother angers him. 
And the oleander tree is cut. It was the one thing about the place I loved. 
I expected it to go. Poor little tree. It bleeds white. It's covered with dust 
— and underneath the dust its leaves are green as the sea and its blossoms 
are white as my soul. 

The chickens have been all over the porch again. My father left his 
heavy shoes in the middle of the floor. He's been tramping in the pig pen. 

-*6f 1 2 )§•- 

I'm glad that he is gone. I asked my mother not to Leave that lunch for 
me — tortillas and frijoles. The flies are circling 'round and 'round. There- 
must be fifty on that plate. Shoo chicks! get out of the house. The greasy 
cloth on the table. The spots on the rough floor, the wrinkled beds, the 
dusty curtains. Red peppers strung across the ceiling. The strong odor of 
garlic. It is so hot. Not a breath of air. The heat will drive me mad. I 
look like a hag. My hair hangs in sticky strands. My hands are hot. Per- 
spiration stands out on my forehead, and trickles down the joints of my 
elbows. I know I am going crazy; something to do; something quick. It's 
so hot. I'm so tired. For what: For whyr What is the answer? 

Something to do. I'm nervous as an old woman and shaky. I've done- 
nothing. The water is sweet and flat. It tastes of alkali. I'm hungry and 
thirsty — for what: 

I can always clean up. The broom is thin and ragged. It drops straws 
as fast as I move it. The spots won't come off the floor. Perhaps a little 
water would be better — and soap. My back aches. Tra-la-la-la-tra-la — 
work and more work and when I get through cleaning there will be supper 
to get. My father will eat everything and spill it on the floor or on himself 
and then he will grumble. After that I will wash dishes. When that is done 
I will correct my papers — and on and on. 

"La Paloma" — I can always sing. It goes something like this — tra-la- 
la-la-la tra-la-la. The broom — shoo chicks! tra-la — No one, no living soul 
loves you. Tra-la-la — Poor little oleander blossom. It must have floated 
in the window. I did not mean to step on you, poor, bruised, white flower. 
This looks better. So much dirt, so much cleanness. 

So ugly, God, so fat and ugly — and I love beauty so. My skirt sags. 
My body sags. My hair is oily. My skin is greasy. And there's so much 
beauty — lovely things, silks and jewels, lapis-lazuli and little red slippers 
with high heels. This room is not half finished. 

I have a mind, but not better than many people. It only makes me love 
beauty more. The girls my age are married. To the Americans I am always 
an outsider — so alone — please, please. "La Paloma" has a lilting air. I 
can always sing. 

My mother will feel quite lost in so much cleanness. How can she be 
my mother: The curtains are all rumpled. She does not like my little 
ribbons. My father has been throwing bottles again. The glass over the 
face of the Madonna is cracked. Shoes here. Towels here. My mother's 

(Continued on page 34) 




1 ( )>1 

•€{ 1 3 }§►•- 





Jacques Le Clercq 

Loving you deeply, deeply, yet may I never 

Lull doubt to sleep, drug pain, bewilder pride, 

Cheat loneliness that prisons me or sever 

My chafing bonds of jealousy, or hide 

Fear bravely in humility, or surrender 

This self-made and self-nurtured disappointment — 

Though you be loving-kind, though you be tender, 

Though you bring myrrh for love, pity for precious ointment, 

Neither avails. 

Leave me. 

Leave me to engender 
Through subtile tortures, evil beyond tear 
From smarting eyes. Leave me a curse for sword, the slender 
Dagger of rancor, scorn for an axe, the scalpel of a sneer. 
Loving you deeply, deeply, yet must you leave me, 
Beyond beauty, beyond sorrow, beyond all save my bitterness — 
I make this hell my paradise. You can do nothing here. 


<6( 14 }§*•■- 

How a Marvelous Phenomenon 
IVas Attested True 

By M. L. Radoff 

/ew wine! New wine! At the Cock and Capon. Come one; come all! 
New wine! New wine! Le patron est le chef tie cuisine!" 

The short October twilight of Provence was over, and the breeze 
from the East, which blew the cold down from the Maritime Alps, quick- 
ened perceptibly. The foregoing cry of the innkeeper's man was right 
welcome, therefore, to Maitre Fenouille and Monsieur Finocchio who were 
huddled about a desperate, little char fire in front of The Angel Gabriel 
and The White Horse. 

"Shall we go, my son?" asked Maitre Fenouille. 

"If it would be warmer there for you, Maitre." 

"Eh, perhaps it would be, son, and the walk will quicken our blood, 
which is important, as that will excite the humours j and if we mention the 
act or problem to be done or considered before the blood is agitated, there 
will be a splendid concentration of the humours on just that." 

"How do you know this, Maitre?" 

"Eh, that is a long story, my son, but I will tell you only that I found 
it written on the bottom of a charm to make the Adversary appear." 

"Pardon me, Maitre, but is that proof of its truth?" 

"Ah, you see my teaching has been of much good. That is right, my 
son; in scholarship always demand proofs. And as I am a scholar, I have 
proofs always ready. I know that this is true for two reasons: rirst, lr was 
written in Latin ..." 

"Splendid, Maitre. Splendid." 

"Do not interrupt, sir, that is only the moiety. What else do you think 
I have of proof?" 

"Something conclusive. Of that I am certain." 

"Right again! Ah, my son, but you are an apt pupil. Very conclusive — 
at the end of the statement was the signature of the author." 

"Wonderful ! Wonderful ! " 

-;} 15}!^- 




"And more yet: there were also the signatures of two witnesses." 

"Most miraculously conclusive. And where is this document, Maitre?" 

"Ah, it is gone, but that is a sad story, my son, and a long one; and I 
sha'n't tell it to you now. But I have a statement from Monsieur Fennel 
in which he attests to having seen it, and all this is duly sworn to before 
Monsieur Rougenez who keeps the inn now at Aix." 

"That is well enough. Still, I am sad that the document itself is gone." 

My son, sometimes I think that my efforts to teach you are all wasted. 
Try to be scholarly: conjecture, and then do the best you can about proofs. 
But if we are to have our philosophy lesson and so direct our humours 
during the walk, let us begin. I shall try to devise a question which is truly 
philosophical, that is, one which may be decided one way and proved 
logically and which may then be decided the other way and proved equally 
as well." 

"But that, Maitre, cannot be a truthful proposition, as the truth is one 
and unified." 

"True, true enough, but logic is the road by which the truth is arrived 
at. Philosophy, therefore, is the choice of the road; the truth remains 
eternal and unified, as you have said. Now a splendid question in philosophy 
is this one: Is it better for a man to know that his wife has been unfaithful 
to him and that she has now mended her ways, or is it better that he know 
nothing for certain and be very suspcious.of her present fidelity?" 

"A magnificent question, Maitre, and one which, according to your 
definition, is purely philosophical." 

"You are an excellent pupil, my son; a teacher is flattered by such 
perfect comprehension on the part of his pupil. Now begin on the solution. 
But God save us, here comes Monsieur Fennel on the run and in great 
excitement. What is it, Monsieur Fennel ?" 

"Sang de Dieu, Maitre, it has just hailed stones with a single horn on 
them like a unicorn. Pierre Menteur has just run up to tell us that this 
happened in his pasture only a few minutes ago. Quick! With me!" 

"But you are running the wrong way." 

"No, no, we haven't time to go to the pasture; we must go make 
affidavits before the stones are entirely melted. We need the signature of a 
mathematician and a scholar to attest to this. We need you, Maitre, for this." 

"Come then let us run more quickly, my son. This is a great day for 
scholarship and science. The signature of such a scholar as I to attest to 
such an event is remarkable. Quick, quick, my son!" 

-■■*{ 16 };*■- 

Big Charleston 

E. C. L. Adams 
Gathering of Several Negroes Telling Stories 

A ll dis compersation 'bout hot suppers, dances womens and funerals 

(•/jl brings a heap of diff'ent things to my mind. One thing I been 

thinkin' 'bout been Big Charleston and he doin's, and dat ain't one 

thing neither. It er range of things kiverin' diff'ent things in life, — a laugh 

one place and a tear another." 

"I jes is 'member Big Charleston. He create a lot of 'sturbance in he 
time. Some folks says he was a human, and some says he were a beast and 
dey say he was double j'inted." 

"Well, deys all kinds of diff'ent roads to de grave, and Big Charleston 
ain't been too long findin' out he road." 

"Tad, tell we de tale 'bout Big Charleston." 

"De first time I see Big Charleston been at a dance and hot supper over 
to de ole street. Dem niggers been havin' some time eatin' hash and rice, 
drinkin' liquor, singin' reels and dancin' and gamblin' and fightin'. You 
could hear 'em laughin' and talkin' a mile. Dey come to de road jumpin' 
to de drum and steppin' as high as a man's head. And as de night wored on 
you ought er seen some of dem niggers cut de buck and de buzzard lope, and 
sidin' 'round dem sisters like er rooster 'round er hen. Everything been 
lovely till dis gal of Potee's from de bluff come. She been pritty, but my 
brothers, I is here to tell you she been one little devil, and she 'casioned 
more'n one funeral. When she hit dat floor, niggers got to movin' and de 
fiddlers made dem fiddles talk and sing and cry. And dat little gal she was 
dartin' up to one nigger and leffen him and dartin' up to another. Back and 
forth she was swingin' and swayin', flyin' 'round dere like some kind of little 
bird. She dat pritty and sweet she set dem niggers crazy. And den she picked 
out Silas for her man, and Big Charleston come up and walked 'round de 
room, den he fasten he eye on de little gal and he lean over and snatch her 

-«K 17^- 



from Silas like some kind of great hawk takin' a chicken in he claw right out 
de flock. And when he do dat, de little gal pull back and say she guh stay 
wid Silas. Den de trouble start. 

All dem niggers been 'gainst Charleston. Charleston picked Silas up 
and th'owed him 'gainst de wall. Den dey started crowdin' him, and he 
looked like a boar hog wid a passel of fice dogs 'round him, and every time 
he twis' he self some of dem niggers was drapped jes like rices draps when 
a boar hog rips 'em up wid he tushes. Every time Big Charleston hit a 
nigger, a nigger hit de floor. When he'd reach out and grab a nigger, it 
look like he guh broke him in half, he'd pick de nigger up and slam him 
down and de nigger would tremble a little bit and lay still. Big Charleston 
been bleedin' all over wey dem niggers stucked him. He reach over and 
wring a stick out of a nigger's hand, and den he clean up. Niggers was 
th'owed all over de place, and Silas was dead, and dat little gal th'owed 
herself down and weep and moan over Silas, and she promise herself and 
she promise God dat she were guh make Big Charleston travel de same road 
he send Silas. 

"And Charleston walk out wid he head up and walk to de boss, and de 
doctor 'tend him. Den dey 'res' him, and de boss say he'll be tooken care 
of, and he been tooken care of. He been a favor-ite wid de boss. 

"And dat night at de settin' up dem niggers been talkin' 'round, moanin' 
and weepin', and dat little gal of Potee's been leadin' de singin' and she 
were prayin' and moanin'. And de followin' Sunday dey bury Silas and dere 
was great moanin' and weepin' from de sisters, and I ain't know whether dey 
weepin' for Silas or for Big Charleston. And dat little gal look like she guh 
bus' her heart out de way she holler. Her voice ring out all over de place 
and dat preacher tried his self, and brothers and sisters was swingin' and 
swayin', shoutin' and singin', and it look like all of 'em had forgit every- 
thing but de sperrit, and de sperrit lifted 'em from de earth. When dey 
start comin' out wid de box to take Silas to de grave, dat little gal th'owed 
herself 'cross it and called on Silas and beg God for Jesus' sake to take her 
along and lay her in de same grave wid Silas. And de sisters lif her up, 
tored her loose from de coffin and dey buried Silas." 

"And wuh dey do wid Big Charleston?" 

"Dey ain't do nothin' to Big Charleston, jes take him to de cote and dey 
try him, but de boss he been bind him, and when he lawyer git up and tell 
dat jury wuh kind of hand Big Charleston been and how much work he can 

--€{ 1 8 Jg*- 

The Advancing South 

By Howard Mum ford Jones 

The Advancing 
South" as a sort of springboard 
Mr. Jones dives headlong into 
the real problem of the South. 
He would substitute "goose-step- 
ping" for "advancing" in Dr. 
Mims' book, and he frankly dis- 
cusses the future of a South 
which is to be guided by leaders 
such as the local intelligentsia, 
whom he finds indifferent, un- 
interested — and uninteresting. 

rTsiNc Dr. Edwin Mims g-n /r K _ Mims is not writing -about the South, 

U book, "The Advancing /I///, ■ , ■ c i J • • 

(•Si/ I advancing South, and it is 

inevitable that his volume* should be 
frankly partisan. Wherever he can find a trace 
of liberalism or progress, be it in education, 
agriculture, religion, literature, or race relations, 
he records the fact and praises the doer. The 
result is invigorating. The doctrine is sound as 
far as it goes. The program is worthy, and one 
to which all right-minded men must rally. He 
displays special excellence in his treatment of Ellen Glasgow's novels, the 
fight of Knapp and Foe for better farms, Dr. Poteat's battle for liberal 
theology, and the revolution in the Southern attitude toward higher educa- 
tion represented in the work of our own university. 

It is perhaps ungracious for one who believes with Mr. Mims that life 
is richer when people are both intelligent and tolerant to complain. But 
on second reading certain discouraging facts appear. The advancing South 
does not seem to be advancing as rapidly as Mr. Mims believes. The con- 
tinual reference to North Carolina is flattering to us, but it is not flattering 
to the rest of the region under discussion. Mississippi, Louisiana, Arkansas, 
and Texas hardly figure in his book. There are only a few encouraging 
paragraphs on South Carolina and Georgia. (Indeed, Mr. Mims is frankly 
gloomy about Georgia.) The principal exhibit for Alabama is the industrial 
development of Birmingham. Of Virginia he has little more to say than to 
note some addresses delivered at the university, and to indicate that it is 
the home of Ellen Glasgow and James Branch Cabell. 

Such a rapid summary naturally does injustice to Mr. Mims' treatment 
of these sections — his tribute to Julian Harris, for instance, comes immedi- 
ately to mind. Undoubtedly there are liberal movements in all of these 

*Mims, Edwin. The Adnuicintt Smith. Garden City and New York: Doubleday, Page & Co.. lfljii. 

4 19)8*- 



states which do not appear in the book. But when every allowance is made, 
the author is under the necessity of referring to North Carolina more often 
than to any other state when he seeks men and measures to fit into his pic- 
ture. The inevitable deduction is that the "advancing South" looms larger 
in the book than it does in reality. It is well to face the fact at the outset. 

Moreover, Mr. Mims' enthusiasm is a little uncritical. Provided that a 
Southerner be liberal, the author is prepared to back him to the limit. The 
result is a lack of differentiation which invalidates the whole volume. It is 
good to know that the Tennessee Coal & Iron Company treats its laborers 
fairly, but is it good to accept without reservations the kind of civilization 
which lies behind the Tennessee Coal & Iron Company: It is right that the 
Duke millions should go into Southern education, but does the South need 
merely another university? A revolt against "Southern Chivalry" was 
needed, but what are we doing with the new freedom now that we have it? 
Helpless before the ebony sphinx of the race problem, Mr. Mims hopes for 
the best. The acid test is not, is the South advancing? but, toward what goal 
is the South advancing? Mr. Mims fails to tell us. 

Or rather what he does tell us is unsatisfactory. Better farms? Yes. 
More peach orchards? Yes. A more skillfully articulated system of indus- 
try? Yes. Educational institutions not quite so archaic? Yes. And the 
result is that the South is committing all the mistakes which the industrial- 
ized North and East have already committed; it is well on its way towards 
the flaccid acceptance of a machine civilization. Mr. Mims does not say so, 
but is it not true that the practical form which Southern civilization is taking 
is the building of more roads over which more automobiles can go more 
rapidly toward more cities that are more and more the duplicates of each 
other? In place of professional Southerners who were bad, we have accepted 
professional boosters who are worse; the radio, the automobile, the movie, 
and the phonograph replace the negro mammy, the plantation, the Southern 
colonel, beauteous womanhood, and the mint julep. Having wrecked one 
civilization, the danger is that we shall accept a Sears-Roebuck civilization 
in its place. What shall it profit the South if it gain industrial wealth and 
lose its own soul? Why should the South "advance," if this is what advance 
practically means? 

This is not of course what Mr. Mims desires. It is not what any intelli- 
gent man desires. But is it not what the South is uncritically accepting? And 
after ten years mainly spent in teaching Southern youth, I am utterly 
discouraged by their placid acceptance of the situation. I think the worst 

^ 20 )§►- 

fact in Southern civilization today is not intolerance or illiteracy or Bour- 
bonism or the negro. These things will change. The most discouraging fact 
to me is the almost complete indifference among the younger generation 
in Southern schools and colleges to the fact that there is any problem in 
Southern civilization whatsoever. And I do not know that the curriculum 
of most Southern schools is calculated to enlighten their ignorance. The aim 
of both is apparently to become standardized. 

The group of "intelligentsia" on every Southern campus represents, 
I suppose, the younger generation of leaders on whom Mr. Mjms pins his 
faith. It is the group which cheers for Mencken, thinks that sex ought to 
be the theme of every work of art, admires Cabell, Anatole France, and 
Edna St. Vincent Millay, scorns the Fundamentalist, the dullard, and the 
small town, writes scorching editorials on the college curriculum, gets out 
the college comic, and patronizes the professors. As I have met them, they 
are bright, clever, cocky, self-assured, and thoroughly uninteresting. They 
are without enthusiasm, without conviction, without a program, without a 
goal. Confronted with ignorance, dullness, and prejudice, they take refuge 
in cynicism. They know with appalling clearness what they don't want. 

Dean Hibbard of this university is quoted in The Advancing South as 
saying that what Southern literature needs is more satire. Perhaps. What 
the "younger generation of leaders" needs is less satire and more conviction. 
The younger generation is frankly false to its birthright. It is laying down 
on the job. In fact, it won't admit that it has any job. It is more delightful 
to dally in Cabell's Poictesme, it is more amusing to shock the home-folks 
by quoting Mencken, it is more thrilling to read and admire negro litera- 
ture — in fact, it is easier to do these things than it is to think, to vote, to 
participate in public discussion, to study intelligently the problems of the 
South. On every Southern campus the debating society is falling into 
desuetude. It requires interest and enthusiasm in public affairs to keep such 
an organization alive, and the intelligentsia don't know a public affair when 
they see one. They prefer jazz, gin, and jokes. The result is a mental 
vacuity beyond compare. Nothing is so dull as the clever students of the 
present college generation. They are exactly like each other, and, what is 
worse, they are exactly like campus intelligentsia in the North, the East, 
and the West. 

It was not always so. There was a time when eager young men flocked 
to Columbia, South Carolina, to learn to defend states rights and the 
economics of slavery and cotton. There was a time when politics was the 





-Hgf 21 ►- 



feverish preoccupation of the Di and Phi societies on our own campus. 
There was a time when a poverty-stricken but earnest generation toiled to 
reopen this university after the Civil War. But it has passed. It has been 
so long since I met a Southern student who was full of flaming enthusiasm 
for anything that I should probably drop dead if one turned up tomorrow. 
They have no interest in the specific Southern problem. They have no 
enthusiasm for the South. For them to read Walter Hines Page's Letters 
is a bore; to follow Dr. Knight's campaign is tedious; to buy the publications 
of the University of North Carolina Press is to waste money. Their only 
reaction to the complicated and fascinating problem of life in the Southern 
small town is to get away from it; their only notion about Clarence Poe is 
that he must be the author of Ligeia, or his relative; and as for poetry 
societies, little theatres, the novels of Ellen Glasgow, the essays of Dr. 
Poteat — why, The American Mercury is their bible, and Cabell is the god 
of their idolatry. 

Perhaps I have overdrawn the picture. Here and there, quietly at work, 
are doubtless students of another type. But I thing it is time that somebody 
spoke out to ask what is to be done with students such as I have described. 
I confess I do no know. When I get them in my classes, I am utterly 
puzzled by them. 1 prefer the honest thoroughness of the plodder to the 
intellectual smart-aleck we seem to have with us. The young intelligentsia 
are mainly intellectual sluggards, too cowardly or too indifferent to face 
the problem of Southern culture. If the South advances, it will not be 
because of this group, and yet, if the South is to advance, who but they are 
eventually to lead the battler Only they are not interested in battles. What 
is to be done? 

-<{ 22 }&■- 

Mentioning the Unmentionable 

By Gerald W. Johnson 
(The Baltimore Evening Sun, November 29, 1926.) 

f = [r he i. ate editor oi the University of Virginia Magazine is described 
// by one of his contemporaries as "now a refugee in New York city 
searching for a job." Hardly a month ago the editor of the Carolina 
Magazine, student publication of the University of North Carolina, was 
ordered to resign his position by the Student Council, and his bacon was 
saved only by the intervention of a faculty committee specially appointed to 
investigate his alleged crimes and misdemeanors. 

Both incidents were caused by the same sort of activity — the Virginia 
editor wrote a story, and the Tarheel editor published one on the theme of 
inter-racial amours. 

Here is an interesting footnote to the thesis of Mr. Addison Hibbard, 
recently published in these columns, on the changing attitude of the South 
toward the Negro in literature. Mr. Hibbard averred that the white pro- 
fessional writers of the South are abandoning both sentiment and comedy 
as the only possible settings for the Negro in fiction, poetry and drama, and 
are beginning to treat him with sharp and questioning realism. Apparently 
there is a certain tendency in the same direction among student writers. 

At any rate, there is a tendency among the youngsters to mention what 
has hitherto been regarded as the unmentionable, to drag into broad day- 
light what has hitherto been regarded as matter to be kept in utter darkness. 

The first two essays in that direction cannot be regarded as unqualified 
successes. The Virginian, as set forth above, is now an exile by the waters 
of Babylon, and while the Carolinian escaped, it was by so tight a squeeze 
that he left hair on both sides of the hole. Nevertheless, the thing has hap- 
pened. Student magazines of two Southern State universities have published 
stories dealing with miscegenation. 

The very violence of the reaction makes it certain that the subject was 
vehemently debated on each campus and awakened echoes in other colleges 
of the region. The unmentionable has been mentioned, the darkest phase 

-<{ 23 ji- 



of the race problem has been effectively, if momentarily and somewhat 
luridly, illuminated. One generation of college students has come into real- 
ization that discussion of the subject is possible since intelligent men hold 
divergent views upon it. 

As to whether this innovation is advantageous or pernicious there may be 
debate, but there is no blinking the fact that it has come and that it is an 
innovation. However, it does not necessarily follow that it foreshadows 
any perceptible change in the Southern social attitude. There is, indeed, no 
indisputable evidence that it has anything whatever to do with the Southern 
attitude toward the Negro. 

After all, these students have not advocated any radical change. All 
they have done is recognize and recite the facts about a subject which con- 
vention has hitherto barred from open discussion. It is conceivable that mis- 
cegenation may be encouraged by being mentioned, but that possibility is 
remote, because it is certain that it has not been prevented by being ignored. 

A good many sociologists hold the optimistic belief that it has tended to 
decrease for a generation, but the reason they ascribe is not the conspiracy 
of silence but the cultural advance of the Negro. As his race pride develops, 
the thing, they believe, becomes abhorrent to him. This view accounts for 
the theory of the ablest Southern social statesmen that the best defense 
against race amalgamation is the rapid development of the Negro. The 
theory is admittedly open to attack, but it does contain some elements of 

Of course, student editors are like other editors in that they sometimes 
yield to the temptation to jar their constituencies with sensationalism rather 
than make a slower appeal on higher grounds. Therefore, care should be 
taken not to attach too much importance to a single episode, or to a pair of 

Nevertheless, there is a certain significance in the fact that Southern 
writers have discovered that the way to jar your readers is by a recital of 
facts about the life that goes on around them. The tendency of college 
writers to lay the scenes of their stories in twentieth-century Virginia or 
North Carolina, rather than in mediaeval France or the Persia of Omar 
Khayyam, certainly is encouraging. It indicates that they begin to grasp at 
least one of the fundamentals of good workmanship. 

To many good people the thought that Southern college students have 
ideas about love affairs between Negroes and whites is terrible. Perhaps it 
is terrible. But at that, is isn't as terrible as never having any ideas at all. 

-h|( 24 J8h- 

From the impotent to the ridiculous is but a short step, and the Golden 
Fleece, Carolina's athletic honor society, has successfully negotiated the 
distance in a single broad jump. With their plumes sadly bedraggled after 
the political fiasco of last spring, the Fleece recently found itself confronted 
with the possibility of a national honor society coming to the University. 
The Fleece immediately checkmated the new organization by tapping, as 
safe bets, the incumbents of three major offices on the campus, giving out 
as a reason for their unusual activity, that these men had not proven them- 
selves at the time of their election. 

And before those who knew the story behind the fall tapping had fully 
recovered from mirth, a member of the Fleece, in a moment of anger 
interrupted the initiation of Sigma Upsilon, in which the Fleece was being 
satirized, with the shouted statement: 

"You can't make fun of the GOLDEN FLEECE and get away with 

What else is there left to do but to make fun of it r Certainly it has 
forfeited all claim to honor, respect, or usefulness. It has taken its place 
in the category of Carolina's hundred or so useless organizations. If, by its 
move, it has kept away a NATIONAL honor society, it has done well in 
that, but there is still one honor society too many on the campus of this 

Fearing for the virginity of its ego, the senior class is on its hind legs 
demanding that Al Moore, the editor of the Yackety Yack, continue the 
inane custom of printing "senior write-ups" under the individual pictures 
of Carolina's finest. 

Editor M,oore classed the custom rightly as a relic of high and prep 
school days, but Kyser (Golden Fleece) and Warren (also) seemed to feel, 

4{ 25 fa°~ 



along with others, that their four years at the University would be wasted 
were they to miss the three inches of meaningless softsoap appended to their 

The custom is foolish. The write-ups are sophmoric blather written 
to tickle the vanity of the individual, and we trust that Editor Moore will 
let the class cry loud and long before he consents to allow such stuff in his 

While we have persistently refused to dabble in politics believing it no 
place for a sane man — campus politics included — we are mildly interested 
in the fight waging about Al Smith's candidacy. It is amusing to note that 
the center of the controversy concerns his religion — the Constitution grant- 
ing equal rights to all classes, colors and creeds notwithstanding. 

Messrs. Mouzon and Johnson, leaders of the Southern saved, have 
come out with harsh pronounciamentos against him. A Catholic in the 
White House: Horrors, the pope would arrive on the first cattle boat from 
Rome and Protestantism would be doomed. Thumbing his nose at St. 
Peter's and the Vatican, Pius would gaily drape his skirts about him and 
take up his residence in the mansion formerly occupied by Calvin, Congre- 
gationalist of good standing. Betting in New York favors His Eminence, 
Cardinal Daugherty, as the next Secretary of State with Mundelheim of 
Chicago — sponsor of the Eucharistic Congress — as Comptroller of the 

All of which is, of course, sheer bigotry and nonsense. Al is no more 
linked with the pope than Dr. Coolidge is with the devil, and it is regretta- 
ble that such small minds should have entered the conflict. His critics, find- 
ing little blemish on his political record, have proven themselves typically 
American by attacking him from a purely personal viewpoint. 

D. T. S. 

The highway winds through the valley. Cars line each side of the road 
for some hundreds of yards. There is a lumber truck, with part of its load 
scattered over the road. Below it lies a motorcycle by a telegraph pole 
Near the pole a mob is gathered. In its center lies a figure in overalls, bloody 
and torn. A man busies himself over the figure, moving with difficulty 
because of the crowd. The mob stands, mouth open and eyes popping, 

<{ 26 )§•-- 

staring at the figure, grumbling at the doctor when he gets in the way. The 
figure writhes, stiffens, and is still. The crowd presses closer and stares 
harder, unconscious of jostling from late arrivals who are in at the death. 
Finally a surreptitious foot prods the figure. There is no response. The 
crowd drifts away . . . Cars are started . . . 
The doctor looks puzzled. 

J. P. P. 

Quite famous as an exponent of the status quo, the Charlotte Observer- 
has in the last few days come to the decision that something ought to be 
done about first-year mortality in the colleges of this state. The suggestion 
they offer below amounts to a challenge to the University authorities. 

"Many students leave the universities and colleges without even a thorough 
knowledge of English grammar, even though they are able to discourse fluently 
about the old English masters and speak several foreign and dead languages. If 
one complain that the college graduate does not know the elements and funda- 
mentals of good English, he is told that the universities and colleges do not teach 
grammar and spelling. Which is true, but they might carry into practice, Dr. 
Chase's preaching, that "what we chiefly need is the courage to be different," 
break away from the established program and examine the applicants for admis- 
sion to the institutions of higher learning and refuse to admit those who do not 
know English grammar or cannot spell, and those who know nothing of North 
Carolina history. 

"Professor Wray has pointed out the reason why our universities and colleges 
are so badly over-crowded and why with ever-increasing appropriations for per- 
manent improvements and maintenance, we cannot meet the demands of the 
rapidly swelling number of applicants for college entrance. If none were per- 
mitted to enter the universities or colleges except those who are prepared, even 
thoroughly grounded in the subjects taught in the grammar grades and junior 
high school courses, the pressure upon the higher institutions would not be so 
acute. Have the university and college authorities the courage to be "different" 
to the extent of barring boys and girls who are unprepared and who have no 
worth-while purpose in going to college?" 





-Hg| 27 fa- 



book bazaar 


The Sun Also Rises. By Ernest Hemingway. Scribner's. 250 pp. $2.50. 

John Erskine has proved himself to be the most expert manipulator of literary 
conversation, and now in The Sioi Also Rises Ernest Hemingway takes his place 
beside him as a master of natural conversation. Most of the younger writers pay too 
little attention to the speeches of their characters. Some are carried away by plot and 
throw in conversation simply as a device to advance the action. Others become lost 
in the morass of psychology and allow conversation to turn into an obscure and 
inhuman jargon. Their novel may still remain above the average, but they are 
considerably weakened by this slurring over of the possibilities of speech. From any 
literary standpoint The Sun Also Rises is a good novel; from a conversational 
standpoint it approaches perfection. 

The story is told in the first person by Jake Barnes, an American expatriate 
living in Paris, who has been strangely and terribly wounded in the war. The nature 
of his wound is such as to break his existence into distorted and pessimistic angles. 
However, through friends and through outside interests he manages to make life 
bearable — giving way to self-pity only in moments of extreme bitterness. His hopeless 
desire for Brett, that tender, whimsical, worldly woman, contains all the pathos of 
beauty and frustration. Mr. Hemingway handles the theme with laconic delicacy. 
Through the medium of his clipped, introspective narrative Barnes is developed 
sanely and starkly, while the dissolute Brett is revealed as the most uniquely charm- 
ing heroine of recent fiction. 

The plot of the novel is not of the definite, plodding variety. It consists of a 
series of incidents subtly woven into a tense correlation and is intermittently broken 
by passages of Hemingway's staccato conversation which delight and astound by 
their effortless accuracy. Above all, the book is real; one feels a sense of complete 
fitness in its every phrase. It is a highly developed realism which convinces by 
average thought and idiom rather than by the unpleasant and abnormal. Characteri- 
zation is inserted with scalpelic deftness. Witness Robert Cohn, the pitiful Jew 
who, alternately cringing and blustering, typifies so well the inferiority complex of a 
race. Description in the novel is admirably atmospheric. Witness the soft setting of 
the Basque country and the bull fight scenes which the author, with the enthusiasm 
of a true aficionado, makes into something of glamorous power. Consider The Sun 
Also Rises from whatever angle you wish — it is worthy of unstinted praise. . 
, n , R. K. Fowler 

Agile Allegory The 


Gandle Follows His Nose. By Hevwood Broun. Bon. and Liveright. Price, $1.50. 


Few people are able to write an allegorical tale. Either the allegory runs away 
with the story, or the story with the allegory, and the result, though often readable, 
leaves something to be desired. 

Gandle Follows His Nose is a charming and somewhat sophisticated fairy tale, 
mingling harmoniously with an allegory that is pointed, clever, and understandable. January 

Mr. Broun has a quiet humor that never loses its flavor. The book can be read many 7927 

times. It is small in size, and one varies between wishing that there had been more, 
and being grateful that, in this day of wordiness, one writer has told his story 
without padding, and made it much more enjoyable by brevity. 

The tale concerns one Bunny Gandle, who blunders through his existence ruled 
by nothing more than circumstance. He becomes a hero merely because he happened 
to be very innocent, and, of course, because he followed his nose. 

There are dragons, magicians, genii, and powerful armies, gods, women, and 
glass mountains — and the writing of Heywood Broun. 

./. P. PreUow. 

Sans Propaganda 

Tropic Death. By Eric Walrond. 283 pp. New York: Bom and Liveright. $2.50. 

Tropic Death is a book of ten brave short stories. Eric Walrond is a man of 
negro blood. But there is no race consciousness, prejudice, or propaganda in the 
book. He cannot be compared with any of the American negro writers, who have 
contented themselves with vehicles for sentimental observations on the sociological 
problems of their race. Instead, he sketches with casual indifference and impartial 
actuality that frightful, boiling pot of so many metals, the West Indies. He drama- 
tizes its scum, a slag of nameless terror, strange tenderness, childlike sensuality and 
superstitious hatreds, with a wealth of poignant implication. 

All ten of the stories are plain, simple, true. The West Indians, the buckra 
johnnies, the erotic senoritas, and the helpless blacks move and change as naturally 
as the folk-tunes beaten out by the chigger-cracked knuckles of a mestizo, while the 
action shifts from the slums of Panama to the marl diggers of the Barbadoes, from 
the crowded decks of a fruit ship to the banks of the Essequibo River in Guiana. 
Beryl, the famished baby girl in "Drought", dies a pitiful death, her abdomen 
swollen with marl dust; but the child's plight is graphic, and without commiserative 
comment. All the fetid meaninglessness of tropic life to the transplanted white is 
suggested in "The Palm Porch", yet Mr. Walrond remains the narrator only of 
these living dramas and sardonic comedies. 

At last, with the printing of Tropic Death, a negro writer — an artist — has writ- 
ten, unchanged, and unimpregnated, the filtrate through his mind of sensitive and 
sympathetic reactions to a wide and authentic experience with his own people. 

J. O. Marshall 

-Hg| 29 }* - 



A Critic JVrites 

The Ninth Wave. By Car] Van Doran. Harcourt, Brace and Company. $2. 

"The true drama of life has been so long obscured by melodrama that men 
ordinarily overlook the dramas in which they find themselves involved. The writers 
of fiction have commonly taken advantage of this habit of response in mankind and 
have found it sufficient to traffic in visible events, to which the term 'dramatic' has 
come to be applied. A few thoughts that a man has had may explain his career more 
accurately than any possible number of happenings chosen from it could do. I keep 
waiting for a novel, though I have never read one, which will alwavs go behind 
events to the impulses, resolutions, convictions which mark the essential life of a man. 
One man would do as well as another, because men in this inner region are so much 
alike. Not many of his moments of inner drama need to be recruited. Tell me the 
truth about a dozen of them, and I will tell you the truth about the man." John 
Thane: Drama and Melodrama. 

And, now, Carl Van Doran in his first novel, "The Ninth Wave," has done just 
this thing. In an era of fiction which deals largely with Main Street and the Metrop- 
olis, Mr. Van Doran sets his hero, Kent Morrow, in an atmosphere far removed 
from either of these. Then he selects ten episodes from his life and tells us just what 
he is thinking and doing at these times; what happens between these moments is filled 
in by reader's imagination. There is nothing forced about these episodes; they occur 
naturally, and each is complete in itself. There is no tedious working up to a 
climax; they are on us without any preparation save in the same chapter — witness 
the scene between Kent and Margaret following Barry's visit; recent fiction holds 
nothing more gripping than those few pages. But they, like the discovery that Barry 
is in love with Kent's wife, hit the reader in a refreshing fashion, for the author 
gives us no indications of their existence in the previous episodes. It is all as it 
would be in life. There are no "anticipatory flashes," the thing happens and that is 
all there is to it. The next chapter is concerned with simpler scenes in the life of hus- 
band and wife. 

Mr. Van Doran has portrayed a real character. His episodes are the same as the 
striking, memorable moments of almost any man, and they are depicted with genuine 
artistry. There is no searching for the unusual or the dramatic; Kent Morrow might 
be any one of a hundred college professors. 

The title refers to the popular superstition that the waves of the ocean move in a 
series, the ninth making the highest point. 

Don Senvell 

Falsparring the Round Table 

Galahad. By John Erskine. Bobbs-Merrill. 340 pp. $2.50. 

Striking his stride in the first paragraph, if such a dance of Pan can be called a 
stride, John Erskine enjoys himself hugely at the expense — and enrichment of the 

»4;{ 30 }§*"•- 

added both form and color. The result 
ien and somewhat intelligent men — for 

e point around which all else revolved, 
"Galahad." For, despite the title role, 
lost carefully delineated 

staid Arthurian legends. To say that he has written another sparkling bo 
a woman, despite the title, would accurately sum up the whole thing. 

Upon the simple canvas of the legends, Mr. Erskine has added color to 
where he found it, and in most places he 
is a charming story filled with clever w 
the use of the women. 

As in "Helen of Troy," Helen was 
so Gueneverc gives unity to the action 

the character of Guenevere stands out as the strongest and i 
one in the book. 

Guenevere, finding Arthur to lack an idealism which she had seen in him before 
their marriage turns to Sir Launcelot, seeking to mold him to her ideal figure. She 
is quite insatiable in this desire to create the perfect knight, and failing in the case 
of Sir Launcelot, she seizes upon his son, Galahad, who being in his youth responds to 
her firm touch most gratifyingly. 

She labors with such zeal in the making of her perfect knight that poor Galahad 
becomes a fanatic on the subject of purity. He is stunned by the knowledge that his 
mother and father are not married, and in the crucial test which Guenevere applies 
to him, deserts the queen when he finds that he is forced to choose between her and 
the ideal of purity which she has bred into him. 

On the dim framework of this story, Mr. Erskine has erected a modern day 
story, alive with conversation and problems of the present generation. The naivete 
and sincerity of Elaine and the power and idealism of Guenevere furnish a delight- 
ful contrast, for the author is at his best when portraying his "super-men." 

Between Elaine, the physical, and Guenevere, the ideal, Launcelot and Galahad 
are but pawns in the game. There are other forces in the story which, if re-named, 
would make it allegorical in nature, but we are spared that by the humanness and 
life which the author breathes into them. 

/ he 


Books Received and Books to be Reviewed 

Heaven Trees. By Stark Young. Scribner's. $2. 

The Triumphant Rider. By Frances Harrod. Boni and Liveright. $2 

Critical Woodcuts. By Stuart Sherman. Scribner's. $2.50. 

Angel. By Du Bose Heyward. Doran. $2. 

Bellarion. By Rafael Sabatini. Houghton Mifflin Co. $2. 

Confessions of an Actor. By John Barrymore. Bobbs-Merrill. $2. 

The Golden Dancer. By Cyril Hume. Doran. $2. 

Almost Pagan. By J. D. Beresford. Bobbs-Merrill. $2.50. 

-o^(3i )p,.. 




Ethics in Journalism 

( Continued from page 7 ) 

A hiatus occurs here in the journalistic ethical movement. Morals, 
veracity, decencies were forgotten during the greatest piece of four year 
news the world has ever known. The World War broke! Stories, head- 
lines, and editorials became so garbled, prejudiced, and yellow that they 
aroused to a contumacious pitch the passions of thousands of 100% Ameri- 
cans. A super-annuated reporter once said to me that newspapers were the 
greatest single cause in bringing on the bloody chaos — how especially true in 
the case of the United States! 

All news was smeared with the War urge. Correspondents manufac- 
tured facts, figures, and statistics that astonished the Allies and shamed 
loyal German- American citizens. Imaginary babies were paraded on bay- 
onets; pulsating fetuses were torn from the wombs of dying mothers; 
nurses were raped; and holy nuns were made to suffer the indignities of 
sexual maniacs. God, how terrible those Huns were in the newspapers! 
And, at the time, the American public fell for it. 

The Hearstian octopus so garbled accounts and official dispatches that 
it was barred by the British, Canadian, French, Portuguese, and Japanese 
governments from their countries and denied the use of their cables. It was 
just before this that, to counteract his earlier pro-Teutonic propaganda, 
Hearst adopted the idea of printing the American flag, often colored, on 
top of the front page; smaller pennants appeared on the inside. 

Other newspapers were just about as reprehensible in their handling of 
the War. The impeccable New York Times heaped abuse on Jane Addams 
for telling the truth about how our soldiers were habitually pepped up with 
liquor and drugs before charging over No Man's Land. This same sheet 
in a most despicable manner blue-penciled, cut, or suppressed all news, 
authoritative or otherwise, of the Russian Revolution in order to defend a 
point of policy: the existing arrangement of things. But one of the vilest 
acts of a capitalistic press was perpetrated by the Chicago Tribune in 1921 
when it reprinted a picture of rioting in Petrograd, which it originally gave 
its clientele on November 4, 1917, captioning it as a portrayal of an anti- 
Soviet revolt by the citizenry of Moscow. No apology or explanation of 
the incident was ever made in the columns of the "World's Greatest News- 


Modern jazz was the curse handed the musical profession by the War. 
The tabloid was the anathema the press had to suffer. Post-War Americans 
became highly emotional, hurried, creatures. Losing the rhythmical sway 
produced by cellos and viols the dance, under the influence of the cacaphon- 
ous saxophone and stifled trumpet, degenerated into a sexual wrestle ; eating, 
depending on time, became a quick-lunch, gorging process or an epicurean 
banquet of delicacies, hours in duration. Similarly, with the tabloids people 
got their news by the easy non-cogitative method of scanning pictures- — 
50% of which were laboratory products. Four pages of cuts devoted to the 
pastimes of "Peaches" Browning ; half a column given the dispatches from 
Albany. The latest metropolitan marble champion gets two pages of ful- 
some flattery j quarter of a column portion to news from Washington. A 
special edition for the verdict in the Loeb-Leopold case with a crepe 
bordered vignette of a fainting female admirer, a photograph of Leopold's 
collection of birds' eggs, and numerous diagrams of other fortuitous mate- 
rial 5 two inches dedicated to an educational experiment in Russia. An extra 
pink edition during the melee of the Hall-Mills trial j a sentence announc- 
ing the death of Dr. Charles Eliot. So it goes! The culmination of unethical 
yellowishness are the headlines quoted at the beginning. 

All is not as hopeless, however, as it may appear. Most of the Southern 
papers are biased, narrow, and Rotarianally orthodox j but they try to 
defend the "po' white trash" and at least, though it is generaly unwritten, 
have a rigid ethical code. Missouri journalists adopted a code of ethics 
in 1921. The final paragraph of it reads: 


In every line of journalistic endeavor we recognize and pro- 
claim our obligation to the public, our duty to regard always the 
truth, to deal justly and walk humbly before the gospel of un- 
selfish service. 
In 1922 Oregon newspaper men passed a code similar to that of Kansas' ; 
part of it is worth quoting: 

We will not permit, unless in unusual cases, the publishing of 
news and editorial matter not prepared by ourselves or staffs, 
believing that original matter is the best answer to the peril of 
Section 1. Sincerity and Truth: 

It (the newspaper association) interprets truth not merely as 
the absence of actual misstatement, but the presence of whatever is 
necessary to prevent the reader from making false deductions. 
It also accepts the duty of openly acknowledging error. 

-■<{ 33 j§»~ 








On April 28, 1923, the American Association of Newspaper Editors, 
composed of men who direct the news and editorial policies of nearly one 
hundred fair-sized dailies, adopted seven canons of Journalism. These are 
worth noting: 

II. Freedom of the Press 
Freedom of the press is to be guarded as a vital right of man- 
kind. It is the unquestionable right to discuss whatever is not 
explicitly forbidden by law, including the wisdom of any restrict- 
ive statute. 

III. Independence 
Freedom from all obligations except that of fidelity to the 
public interest is vital. 

IV. Sincerity, Truthfulness, Accuracy 
Good faith with the reader is the foundation of all journalism 
worthy of the name. 

V. Impartiality 
Sound practice makes a clear distinction between news reports 
and expressions of opinion. News reports should be free from 
opinion or bias of any kind. 
But few of the big city dailies have any ethical code and many have no 
ethical sense. It is among the little papers like the ones which subscribe 
to the Kansan, Oregon, and Missouri codes that a moral renaissance in 
journalism must take place. 


(Continued from page 13) 

dress here. My hat here. This looks better. Dusting improves everything. 
The mantelpiece — these baskets and china figures. Prizes from a cracker- 
jack box. My childish parents make life harder. My father's pistol. My 
father loves pistols — long and blue-black and shiny. He likes to break 
whisky bottles and jack rabbits. It must go back, next to my mother's 
rosary beneath the picture of the Madonna. The table next — dusty as the 
road. I wonder — pistols. That one is loaded. Right through here. It would 
not hurt long. And if I keep on living there will be a pain always. The 
chairs are dusty, too. They will be dusty again tomorrow. Sweeping and 
dusting and washing dishes. Trudging to school in the morning. Sweating 
Back in the hot afternoon, dreading the people that I meet. They laugh and 

-4 34 ►- 

look or else they do not see me. If I were doing any good. But it's futile. 
I am not sure of anything. Those arithmetic problems. The figures go 
wiggling up and down the page. I never know. Two and two. Eight times 
eight. Geography. The capitol of Wyoming. Paris, Rome, and — San 
Felipe. If I were abroad I should still be ugly. 

So many lovely things, God, and I am so hideous. So many useful 
things, and I wasted. The thorns pressed on your forehead seemed real, 
Christ, but your eyes and face were beautiful. Your cross could not have 
been as hard to bear. 

The pistol — if I keep on living, so tired. My feet ache and my back 
aches, and my eyes burn. My hands are swollen. There's supper to get. 
My father will be angry if there is no chile. They are so ugly, God, and 
so dirty. I'll be dirty, too. Some day it will no longer matter. 

A lovely pistol. Miguel will not even care. The girl will give a little 
sigh of pity. Will I always be so alone? Right through here. For a minute, 
it will hurt. 

I am afraid. One minute only. Tamales and tortillas. The smell of 
garlic and perspiration. Red peppers strung across the ceiling. Pigs 
snuffling and snorkling. Hairless dogs. Whiskey bottles planted in a heart- 
shaped plot. Unrestrained fat women in two flapping garments. The blaze 
of the sun. Glare — white, white, white — sky, blue, blue. Eyes that throb 
and pound against my brain. 

There will be a little pool of blood, a stain and a swarm of flies. The 
thrum of guitars and a sweet burst of "La Paloma." Chalk and alkali dust. 
A little lake of blood. Flies. A buzz and hum of flies. An ugly, flabby 
body — stringy hair and staring eyes. Ugliest of all in death. 

A pool of blood. A spattering of blood. Quiet and darkness and 
oblivion. Right through here. It will not hurt long. My mother will not 
care. She does not mind a mess. 




—4 35 )§*••- 

Christian d> King 
Printing Company 

"Craftbuilt ^Printing" 

Printers of College Publications that 
are distinctly different 



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ued from page 18) 

do, he say he ain't never been in no trouble wid white folks, and he say, 
'You all ain't got nothin' 'gainst Charleston, wuh he do? He kill one nigger 
in self defense and he broke up two or three others. Wuh harm is Big 
Charleston do?' And dat little gal of Potee's been dere. Instead of her 
being agin Big Charleston, she help him and when de jury turn Big Charles- 
ton loose, wuh she do? She set dere and wait. When she come out de cote 
house, she been wid Charleston and she been recognize as he ooman." 

"You sho' never is know wuh er ooman guh do. De bes' thing you kin 
do is to figger out wuh dey guh do, and dey is more'n apt to be contrary and 
do de other thing, and den your mind is more'n apt to have you wrong. 
You never is know wuh er ooman guh do." 

"Well, I figger out womens dis er way. When it comes to mens heap 
er time it ain't matter wuh er man do or wuh kind of man he be. Look at 
all de womens. All un 'em after Big Charleston, and dey know wuh kind of 
man is Big Charleston, and most generally dat's womens." 

"Wuh 'come of him, Tad?" 

"Well, him and dat little gal live together, and she been crazy 'bout 
Charleston, but atter while he lef her and tooken up wid another ooman. 
Dat's de way he started travelin' on he las' road. Dat little gal mighty nigh 
tored de other ooman up, and she stick er knife in Charleston and he die, 
but 'fore he die he grab her and twis' her over and broked her neck on he 
knee, den he fall back and she fall 'cross him and dey both die kivered wid 

"All you got to do is follow womens." 





Stetson t4 D" 

and Furnishers 


Stetson "D" Clothes and 
John Ward Shoes 

All Stetson I) Clothes pressed free 
at our shop for entire school year. 











.„_„ „ + 

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Over its long period of useful 
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account of practically a million 
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The Fidelity Bank 


10 cents and up 



Telephone L-4461 

Telephone J-9441 

The Writers 

VIRGINIA LAY shifted her medium from woodcuts to verse in this 
issue ; she has promised a cut for the next number . . . BYRON WHITE, 
managing editor for the Tar Heel, writes about his chosen held . . . 
JACQUES LE CLERCQ will have a book of verse published by the Dial 
Press j he is a contributor to numerous contemporary publications, not the 
least of which is New Masses . . . KATHARINE JOHNSON spent a 
few years of her life on the Mexican Border, acquiring the color which she 
weaves into her stories . . . M. L. RADOFF came here from Texas 
University and is in the graduate school . . . E. C. L. ADAMS lives in 
Columbia, S. C, and will have a book of his sketches published soon by the 
University Press . . H. M. JONES, who is on the faculty at this Uni- 
versity, would evidently like to write an "Advancing South" himself . . . 
GERALD W. JOHNSON contributed this editorial to the Magazine 
unknowingly j he was once head of the department of Journalism at this 
University, leaving it to go to the Baltimore Sun. 

[ 39 &>- 




University Printery 

In U. N. C. Public Service 


PHONE 158 
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From coast to mountains, 
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We cover anything from a 
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The Bank of Chapel Hill 

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R. V. READE ', I'ice-I'rt^iileiils 


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Resources $9,000,000.00 

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Woodcut Virginia Lay 

The Ordeal oe the Young 

Intellectual DilJard S. Gardner 

Burlesque (Verse) R. K. Fowler 

My Daughter (Verse) Ellen M. Carroll 

Amateur John V. A. Weaver 

Cloud Castles (Verse) Clinton Scollard 

Song to a Mechanical 

Lady (Verse) Howard Mumford Jones 

The Path ( Verse) Lilith Shell 

Copper Hill (Sketch) Padraic Pretlow 

Dark. Brother ( Verse) Lewis Alexander 

Charm for Lost Innocence (Verse) Jacques Le Clercq 

Vigil ( Verse) G. A. Cardwell, Jr. 

Book Bazaar 
The Writers 

^ z£^^....rsrv^ 

\Y,w<l, ul hi, VIRGINIA LAY 

Inh r,-/,, r,-r, I icill, hlo-.cs on I he seal of" lh<- 




The Ordeal of the IToung Intellectual 

By Dillard S. Gardner 

A study ii/i'ol-vit/g some of the psychological and educational aspects of 
the problem of the exceptional student. 

Invention, or creation, is the highi 
activity of which -zee are capable, an., 
in religion, in science, in everything, it 
either Joes not receive its just dues or i 

■st fo 

' yet, 

rm of wen/at 
in education, 
activity which 
ta!l\ shackled. 

T. S. Knovclson in 



rHE study of the young "intellectual" is a study of inadequacy; 
inadequacy not of the natural endowment of the man but of the 
agencies of training and of the social attitude by which he is sur- 
rounded. His abundant energy and intelligence is diverted from construct- 
ive, artistic, and scientific endeavor to conventionalized cynicism. Is is the 
problem of our awakened educators and our practical psychologists to turn 
more surely to the study of the individual, his talents and modes of learn- 
ing, as the vital element in sound teaching. They must turn, sooner or 
later, to the study of that little minority so vital to the future of society, the 
individualistic, solitary youths who have thought their way out of crowd 
compulsions by their self-analysis and intellectual courage just as did every 
original thinker from Protagoras through Spinoza to William James. 

-4 3 ►- 




The young "intellectual" is intellectually maladjusted; he is a "lion in 
an ocean of beer"; he questions life closely, and writing often affords him 
relief from the tortures of his own questioning. They become painfully 
realistic and frankly disillusioned, peering beneath the dogmas and shibbo- 
leths of crowd thinking. They are few in number, usually existing as lovers 
of solitude and their own thoughts, but often drawn together in cliques, 
as is partially true here, due to their common interests and attitudes. One 
can not hold up these recluses to analysis and consequent ridicule, and 
surely an analysis of some unknown "crank" would not be interesting to 
the students in general. For this reason the intellectual here referred to 
is the young thinker who writes and is therefore generally known. 

The primary reason for the existence of the intellectual in college is 
not so much that he is a cynic as it is that he is not busy. These boys are 
not "cranks"; they are intellectually superior, as will be seen by a casual 
perusal of their ratings in the mental alertness tests. Since they are intellect- 
ually superior to the average student, classes easily become boring or 
extremely "slow." While the instructor is carefully and diligently driving 
home a few fundamental facts in a manner that will enable the average 
student to grasp them, the intellectual student has quickly obtained the gist 
of the matter, or has found it uninteresting and therefore ignores it entirely. 
Whether he learns the matter rapidly or casts it aside as uninteresting, there 
is a great store of surplus energy which demands outlet. In the ordinary 
individual this outlet is found in different activities; the physically strong- 
turn to athletics; the scholarly turn to additional research in that particular 
subject studied; the gregarious turn to the fraternities, or, if not a member, 
may organize some group for a specific purpose; the ambitious turn to 
politics, and any and every campus activity is employed for purposes of 
expediency. However, the intellectual is not a normal individual; he is 
more than normal, especially in the held of intelligence. Since his 
interests are primarily mental, he is rarely an athlete. He is too tempera- 
mental and nervously brilliant, as a general rule, to possess the plodding 
patience of the scholar. In the presence of the ordinary student he finds 
himself superior in intellect and possibly inferior in physique, personality 
or experience in life; if this condition exists, he resorts to self -justification, 
which exalts the mental superiority over all other attainments and may 
result in a distinct inferiority-complex. If really intellectual he soon per- 
ceives the utter uselessness of most of the campus organizations, when re- 
garded from the viewpoint of the permanent benefit secured. As a result of 


these individual variations from the average student, he disposes 

surplus time in thought, imager}', reasoning, rationalization, creative 

ing and criticism, since all of these fall within the realm in which he 

that he is superior to the average. Such activities are therefore congenial 

to him. 

We have seen why the intellectual devotes most of his spare time to 
casual and abstract thinking; now let us determine, if possible, why he is 
hypercritical and cynical. We seek freedom from crowd-mindedness by 
liberating our own thinking from the complex of crowd compulsion. The 
superiority of the thought of the intellectual over that of the average 
student gives to the exceptional student a sort of intellectual courage. The 
"slow" classes, the idolized athlete, the struggle for honors — these and 
others appear to him as defects which do not exist in his imagined, ideal 
university, where the "intellectual" sits supreme. In comparing conditions 
as they are with the perfect conditions which he has conceived, the defects 
become more and more apparent and the conditions become more unbear- 
able. The intellectual becomes nettled, as he sees more clearly the lack of 
consideration given the creative thinker, and the honors piled upon the 
athlete. To him it is a question of brain against brawn, and he becomes 
incensed as he sees brawn win approbation over brain more and more con- 
sistently. This is why we referred to the intellectual as being maladjusted. 
He refuses to tit into a scheme of things which to him seems illogical and 
unjust. In such a situation he reacts easily to the slightest stimulus with 
rage, just as is often the case when one has been severely scolded or bitterly 
criticised, a slight irritation causes one to fly into a passion of anger, which 
is apparently without cause. He is being forced to do something which he 
feels is wrong; and by having to follow along with the class and at its rate 
of progress he is thwarted in the desire for the rapid acquisition of culture. 
That is what psychologists call a thwarted tension, an example of which is 
seen at work when a clerk, scolded by an employer, goes home to growl at 
his wife and children, or when a child punished by its mother, in turn vents 
his rage upon the cat by pulling its tail. In a thwarted tension, even if some 
circumstance prevents the rage being vented upon the one who caused it, 
there can be no real suppression, for to attempt to suppress it causes it to 
spread throughout the mind in what is called "emotional transference," or 
diffusion, so that a violent reaction follows from a slight stimulus. 

With the idea of superiority there appears its complement — the cynical 
attitude. The feeling of superiority is the basis of snobbery and of "intel- 

()f his 







-4( 5 ►- 

7 he 



lectua] high-hattedness," or cynicism. When one discovers that he is better 
than another, he logically feels that the other is inferior to himself. The 
error here lies in this, that one may be inferior to another in brilliance yet 
superior to him in knowledge, and even in logic. The most original mind 
has merely a margin of difference between it and the average mind; that 
margin causes new standards and new values to be created. Imitation is a 
question of degree. Between the common plagiarist and Aristotle's poet, 
who "imitated nature in such a way as to fulfill her unfinished desires," 
the same thing is done but in different degree. 

The Mencken attitude may grow out of either or both of two conditions. 
First, it may arise from an irritation at the slow process of acquiring culture, 
or it may arise from a real irritation at the slowness of the course on which 
he is sitting. In the latter case, routine work may be neglected, and the 
quite genuine mood of rage at the course may be transferred to the apparent 
cause of the slowness of the course — the dumb student, and the unintel- 
lectual athlete. If the irritation is not severe and genuine, as in the case of 
those who pose as thinkers, the imitation of Mencken comes easily and 
naturally. Menckenesque debunking is a cheap literary sport, which psy- 
chologists refer to as "polysyllabic condemnation," and which requires only 
a cynical attitude and a large vocabulary, with, perhaps, a particular animus 
towards something. 

In discussing the dilemma of the intellectual one of our Carolina 
professors said: 

"It is hard to persuade the undergraduate that culture is a long process. 
The intellectual has a real urge to do something, but Jack of the proper 
background of life and experience exists. There is merely a 'pencil and 
paper command of the material.' It is true that they are sincere; they have 
merely plunged ahead in their search for culture." Such men have simply 
been frustrated in their thought processes, and wherever frustration exists, 
exploratory, or trial-and-error behavior is displayed in an attempt to fulfill 
the desire. Here the trial-and-error behavior was not actually tried, but 
was pictured in the minds of the intellectuals; such mental trial-and-error 
activity we call reason. Here reason has not yet solved the problem, 
although the condition still exists. When reason fails to relieve the frustra- 
tion of the desires, there is true maladjustment, that is, the individual fails 
to fit into the scheme of society by his refusal to become "a cog in a great 
machine." The difficulty in their attempts at iconoclasm and the picturing 
of erotic fantasies is due to the limitations of their social equipment, which 

- *';{ 6 }> - 

consists largely in their high emotionality (the case with winch the 
excited which was referred to above) and their large vocabula 
are not accompanied by deep experience or concepts arising fron 
knowledge of life. Vet, the value of the intellectual must not be under- 
estimated; the intellectual does think, whereas the ordinary student is far 
too prone to accept complacently the status quo without question and without 

We have examined in some measure the reasons for the intellectual's 
abstract thinking and his cynicism, but we must go further. In order to 
understand the "ways of his mind," we must consider how he thinks. Here 
we have an authority to aid us. John Dewey in How We Think shows us 
the close relationship between thinking and feeling when he writes as 

"Thinking is important because, as we have seen, it is that function in 
which given or ascertained facts stand for or indicate others which are not 
directly ascertained. The exercise of thought is, in the literal sense of the 
word, inference; by it one carries us over to the idea of, and belief in, 
another thing. It involves a jump, a leap, a going beyond what is surely 
knoivn to something accepted on its warrant." 

What we think about a thing is largely predetermined by how we feel 
toward a thing. This mental set gives rise to certain set modes of reaction 
to social situations in each individual. Such attitudes vary with the individ- 
ual's mental set or feeling towards a thing, and with the character of the 
social stimulus, and is marked by the individual's inhibitions and defense 
reactions (these have been referred to above). The general feeling of 
irritation on the part of the intellectual colors his thinking and largely 
predetermines the direction of his thought; consequently it points the gen- 
eral direction of his conclusions, the general direction of the jump in 
thought. Let us bear this in mind as we proceed to analyze the critical 
writing of the intellectual. 

Probably the strongest criticism that has been made of the Faun is that 
the facts may be admitted as premises, but the inferences made are not 
justified. If this be true (admitting it only for the sake of a basis for 
analysis), then there is a flaw in the logic employed by the young thinker. 
Let us attempt an analysis of his train of thought, in order that we may 
determine this flaw in reasoning. 

The young thinker sets to work with what he believes to be a free mind, 
but "pure" logic is rarely, if ever, attainable. In thought the mind draws 

-«( 7 H- 

sy are 









upon the facts stored away by previous learning and experience, only one 
fact or idea being called forth at that identical time. These facts or ideas 
have remained unchanged in the mind, but, as they are called forth one 
after the other in thought, they blend with those coming before or after 
them and assume a larger notion or concept as a result of the new relation- 
ship between the ideas or facts. If each successive idea dove-tails with the 
next, we say that the relationship is real, and the thinking logical ; if the 
ideas are not correlated, we say the thinking is imagination and that the 
relationship between the ideas is forced. Facts and ideas, unchanged in the 
mind, appear through writing, speaking and thinking in new arrangements 
with other facts and ideas in a group relationship which fuses these smaller 
units into higher, newer, and more complex ideas. It is thus that an idea 
becomes a plan, or a single thought a theme. It is here that originality and 
creative thinking find birth ; they are primarily questions of new relation- 
ships. The leap in thinking receives its direction from the prejudice, pas- 
sion, etc. of the thinker. If this leap is too far, we say that the man is 
illogical 5 if the leap is in the wrong direction, we say that the conclusions 
are due to imagination, and that the ideas are not naturally compatible, but 
have been correlated arbitrarily. Too often the young intellectual, stirred 
by an enthusiasm for a definite line of thought follows that line rapidly, 
but none too thoroughly, and "jumps to conclusions." If there is fallacious 
reasoning in the Faun, it can be accounted for by these observations and 
explanations of this type. 

From the Faun we may turn to another phase of the intellectual's 
creative endeavor, the erotically-minded treatment of sexual perversions. 
Quite often the intellectual is over-sexedj the explanation for which is 
found not so much in his inherent nature as in the fact that he takes part 
in few activities which will use his surplus, youthful energy. The ordinary 
youth is a pseudo-athlete. This, coupled with a perfectly normal sex rela- 
tionship, provides an outlet for any surplus energy which might otherwise 
be turned into sex fantasies, sex visions, sex day-dreams, and such unnatural 
outlets for sexual desires. Sex, like all other psychological tensions, must 
have its outlet, for suppression is dangerous in that it leads to diffusion, as 
referred to in discussing rage. If diffusion results, the individual's entire 
mind and all his thoughts become sexualized as a result of the unnatural 
suppression of sex desires. In such a case the individual seeks an outlet, 
which will reduce the desire or tension. When there is a frustration of sex 

(Continued on fage 32) 


By R. K. Fowler 
"For Men Only" 

The line worms forward, slow and stolid — 

Tickets in hands that are dappled with sweat. 

Frayed green tickets for the bald-head rows, 

Slick red tickets for the half-way rows, 

Crumpled blue tickets for the balcony beaus. 

(Jesus, the balcony — best I could get!) 

Then they are tendered to hard-faced women 

Who splay down the aisles with mincing gait, 

Followed by heavy feet which grate 

On the crackling carpet of peanut shells. 

A tangle of lung-compressing smells 

Rises from dust and scraps of paper — 

A cloying, shifting cloud of vapor 

Which furtively beats on the battered seats. 

Swung in the air like dirty blankets 

Masses of smoke, disconsolate — 

Pierced by the noise of strident voices. 

The coiling streamers belly and toss 

With a drowsy seething — swayed by the breathing 

Of men who talk and laugh and choke 

With their necks upthrust in the banded smoke. 

Five men crawl from the bowels of the building 
And take their places in the orchestra pit- — ■ 
Shirt-sleeved slaves who idly sit 
With their jaws click-clacking till they get the cue 




To loose their quota of raucous, blue and jazz-torn music. 

The oily dago fiddles with the keys, 

The drummer crosses his bony knees. 

(What the hell time is it? Five to go. ) 

Audience waiting, air pulsating, 

Cigarettes bulging with a vicious glow. 

Lights in the pit blink off and on — ■ 

The dago's fingers flash and fall, 

From the mouth of the trumpet a blaring squall. 

Hard-to-get Gertie, that hard-to-get gal 

The saxophone struts with the tune in its mouth, 

The drummer rocks his body and knocks 

A skeleton rhythm on wooden blocks. 

Hard-to-get Gertie, that hard-to-get gal 

The croon of a violin, harshly tender, 

Lost in the yells of a candy vendor. 

Belly Laughter. 

Black-face clown in baggy britches 

Leers his way through a dialogue 

With a ghastly, blondined priapagogue 

Who does her best to lend some zest 

To the glib narration of a smutty jest. 

The young men giggle, the old men smirk 

And the smoke settles down with a soft insistence. 

The mummers continue their filthy work 

And the smoke crouches low like a beast in the distance. 

Then another buffoon strides upon the stage, 

His face agrimace with well-feigned rage, 

And rushes on the black-face — paddle in hand. 

The pair of them prance in a ludicrous dance 

Interspersed with blows on the seat of the pants. 

Roars and guffaws, nudges and prods — 

(Haw, haw, haw! ) 

A vast, throaty whoop from the gallery gods — 

(Haw, haw, haw! ) 


Howls of glee at the pain applied 
By a heavy paddle to a buffoon's hide. 

" Sa-lo-mee. iy 

The orchestra sinks to a sensual hum 

And the drummer tump-tumps on a Chinese drum. 

A girl twirls forth — a shapely morsel, 

Arms uplifted, bare legs shining, 

Wriggling in cadence to the violin's whining. 

Sa-lo-mee, the girl with the rounded thighs, 

Sa-lo-mee, the girl who makes 'em open their eyes. 

Two bits of cloth form her brief costume ; 

Strip her down — she needs the room. 

She slides around with a soothing motion, 

Her body heaves like a miniature ocean. 

She slides and slips, she rolls her hips 

And the audience stares with moistened lips. 

Sa-lo-mee, the girl who's fit for a king, 

Sa-lo-mee, the girl who shakes — that — thing. 

The music stops with a frenzied run, 

Sa-lo-mee quivers — and the dance is done. 

There in the glare of the light she stands 

Amid the mad, wild pounding of mad, wild hands. 

Sa-lo-mee, the girl who charms the men — 

(Boy, she's a hot one — call her back again! ) 


Grand finale, and a jumbled swirl — 
Yammering voices in a last shrill chorus, 
Last high kick by a gold-toothed girl. 
A creak of ropes and the curtain drops — 
A thin, cheap curtain, dressed to be gay 
With a slovenly picture of nymphs at play 
And the ads of various grocers' shops. 
The patrons rise in a solid mass, 
Clogging the aisles as they clamor to pass. 
A ceaseless grumble, a formless mumble — 






Men who shove and curse and stumble. 
A stream of bodies, sluggish and slow. 
(Howdy, feller — damn good show.) 
Some move on to a night of lust — 
Their senses whipped to an eager foam; 
Others move on with listless steps 
To the dull securitv of home. 


My Daughter 
Ellen M. Carroll 

1 have no daughter, 

but if I had, 

I would think of her 

as a peach bloom 

in the silverness of dawn. 

As the amber flame 
of a candle 
put by priestly hands 
upon a high altar. 

As a young wind 
blowing over new snow, 
gathering nothing 
save whiteness. 

I have no daughter, 

but if I had, 

perhaps she would be 

an ordinary everyday woman 

like her mother. 



By John V. A. Weaver 

As he left the doctor's office, the weight upon his whole being seemed 
to increase. It was as if a stee] wire were vibrating in the back of his head. 

"So I've lost the 'amateur spirit,' have I?" he muttered to himself, as 
he sank dejectedly back in the seat of the taxi and stared out at the baking 
street. "Damn silly diagnosis. Hum." 

Silly? Well, one guess was as good as another. And the doctor cer- 
tainly hadn't been able to find anything wrong with his body. Limbs, 
organs, muscles — perfect. Only — all the zest, the tang was gone from 

"The whole shooting-match has about as much wallop as near-beer," 
he mused. "Food's a sample. Dinner last night — the roast beef tasted like 
absorbent cotton, and the artichoke was like licking library paste from a 

He shuddered, and closed his eyes. He could see the doctor; he could 
hear his semi-humorous scolding. How much truth was there in it r He 
rehearsed some of the statements: 

"You're a professional — a professional, understand: That's all that's 
the matter with you . . . professional golfer, professional worker, profes- 
sional liver, professional family man .... Listen, think of the word 
'amateur.' Mean's 'lover.' See? Plays the game for the love of it. Tries 
to win — all right. But — win, lose, or tie, the main joy is in the playing . . . 
That's where you've gone wrong. You've simply abandoned the amateur 
spirit. No losing, no dead-heats for you. Win, win, win .... Nice wife, 
two kids, perfectly-run home in the right suburbs, the right crowd at your 
country-club, the standard right cars, the standardized amount of drinking, 
not ever rowdy, a string of golf-cups that makes your sitting-room look like 
Tiffany's — oh, you get the idea .... And your factory — it's a winner. 
Tooth-brushes, or vacuum-cleaners, or paint — -whatever it is — runs like a 
top, I'll bet. No kick in it, though, is there?" 





He groaned. The doctor had hit it all right. Not tooth-brushes — tools. 
"Bennett Tools Build the Nation's Homes." When he took hold of it — 
fifteen years ago, and now — "runs like a top, yep." And about as excitingly. 
Oh Lord. 

His mind was still worrying the idea as he blundered through the 
crowds in the Grand Central to his train. He'd gone stale. Very well. 
"Get the amateur spirit back — that's all I can say. Figure it out yourself." 
Figure it out? How: 

As he made for his customary bridge-table in the Club car, Seymour 
hailed him. "Don't forget the Foxy Foursome Sunday," his neighbor 
shouted, "We'll take those birds on for fifty-dollar Nassau. Clean 'em up, 

He nodded and smiled, automatically. Certainly they would clean up. 
His golf was at its regular mid-season perfection. He could click off from 
a 78 to an 81 without an effort. If the breaks came, he would even hit as 
low as a 74. 

He settled into his chair, and played his cards with mechanical sureness. 
No extraordinary hands. He doubled at the right moment, and redoubled 
at another critical moment. Six hundred points to the good as they came 
into Greenwich. At five cents a point. He pocketed the bills without looking 
at them. 

He paused upon the foot-board of his roadster. The spotless sheen of 
its enamel, the harsh brightness of its nickel suddenly revolted him. He 
dismissed the chauffeur. "Take it home," he said, "I'm walking." 

Head down, he trudged along the sidewalk. "Amateur spirit." Now 
that the phrase was in the fore of his mind again, a host of relative ideas 
crowded in. The crowd of urchins he had passed yesterday, down-town. 
No marbles, no tops. Shooting craps for pennies .... And the game of 
street baseball he had witnessed when he went to look at that new apartment 
on Tenth Street .... He had loitered long enough to see the winning 
run come in. And the losing ragamuffins had paid over, with nonchalance, 
ten cents a head. Oh yes, he had watched the money pass . . . and he had 

Now, he did not grin. "The game for the game's sake" — where could 
he find it nowadays? Was it possible that there had once been a freckle- 
faced boy who lost his brand-new front tooth, tackling another twice his 


size — alas, over the goal liner A hoy within whose veins joy 
like liquid fire, who capered home through the smoke see 
twilight, yodeling and yipping, drunk with vitality? 

Almost incredulously he touched with his finger the porcelain 
beneath his upper lip. Oh, it was authentic. It remained. Al 
dim — unreal — far away and long ago. 

His wife was standing in the hall as he entered. His a 
critical eyes found her somehow annoying, so neat she was, so unruffled, so 
so "elegant." He stared at her, then kissed her roughly, almost savagely. 

"For Heaven's sake, dear," she said in astonished tones, pushing him 
off gently, "What's come over you? And hurry into your dinner-jacket. 
Dinner's at seven, at the Blake's." She submitted to the embrace, laughing 
a little uncertainly. He gathered that she was pleased with his vehemence, 
but was a little fearful, none the less, that he might "muss" her hair. 

He grinned sheepishly. "Just glad to see you, that's all," he answered, 
and sighed. 

Now it seemed as if every event had some bearing upon his "profession- 
alism." The house looked too damned spick-and-span. Oh Hell — yesterday 
he had been smug over just that condition. "Well-run." Everything about 
it like clockwork. "An ordered life." Sure. The habits were formed 
beyond change. Nobody would understand him if he tried to explain. 
Nobody. Did he understand, himself? 

He groaned inwardly as he remembered another piece of evidence 
bearing upon the subject. Pigeonholed in his sleeping-room desk was yes- 
terday's letter from Ned, his nine-year-old son. On his way to shave he 
pulled the letter out, and, propping it against the soap-dish, he re-read it, 
through the lather. 

"Camp is just tine .... I can swim my thirty strokes .... Mr. 
Donovan and Mr. Cowan took us all out into a field yesterday. We had a 
fine time. They are teaching us to play . . . . " 

"Teaching us to play," he muttered aloud. "Oh, my good gosh." 

Before him, suddenly, he saw stretching a future grey, polite, urbane, 
uniform. Himself, his family, his life, their lives — devoid of any spon- 
taneity, uninspired, comfortable, patterned. 

The door to the nursery, at his side, swung ajar. At the slight creaking, 
he turned his head. What he saw made him open the door wide. 

)f living ran 


ted October 



in substitute 

the rest was 


/akened and 


ruffled, so — 




Three-year-old Bobbie, clad in minute pajamas, gravely sat in the 
middle of the floor, pushing slowly forward the gaudy "Packard-model" 
automobile-tricycle. Ten past six, and not asleep — 

His first impulse was to remind his son of the breach of routine. Then — 
no, he'd be damned if he would. He stood silent for some moments, 
reflecting how casually he knew this young son of his. 

He walked gently into the room, and stood beside the child who looked 
up briefly, then went back to his slow pushing of the vehicle. 

"Well, Bobbie — how do you like your new Packard?" he said with a 
bit of difficulty. 

"It ain't a Packard," the answer came in solemn, matter-of-fact tones. 

"Why, yes it is. Look. Seer It says 'Packard.' Look at the pretty 
hood, and the real tires and the horn. Sure it's a Packard. Just like 

There was no impudence in the reply. Just a firm, gentle contradiction: 
"No, it ain't a Packard." 

Mr. Bennett laughed indulgently. "Isn't it? What is it, then?" 

(Continued on page 26) 


Cloud Castles 
Clinton Scollard 

At dusk I saw a cloud-land castle crumble 

From base to lofty crown ; 
Its turrets seemed to totter and to tumble 

In utter ruin down. 

So often the fair hopes that man has builded 

In dreams for his delight, 
Like the cloud-castles that the sun has gilded 

Fade suddenly from sight. 


Song to a Mechanical Lady 
By Howard Mumford Jones 

Mechanical and stripped and steel and ba 
Infuriating fat and bulging neighbors 
Who'd talk and stare. 

A smoot/i and whirring pulse was in your laughter; 
Like metal disks your sure, hard words were spoken; 
Your soul set patterns minds must follow after, 
Or he broken. 

And you were very white and tense and steady, 
A dynamo that purred beneath its load, 
A whirling fly-wheel insolently ready 
To explode. 

Your wrath was the ferocious wrath of Jewry, 
Your love had pertinacity like glue; 
I think your soul was metal clasping fury — 
/// fact, I knew. 




You had the strength of shining rails and sabres, ,. , 

* r i ■ i 7 ' ■ j ; ? 7 / / February 






The Path 
By Lilith Shell 

As I passed along the highway, 
The beaten, hard-paved highway, 
I saw a path lead over a hill, 
Over a shining sun-kissed hill, 
On a shim'ring summer day. 

So I turned me from the highway, 
From the heated, heartless highway, 
And followed the pleasant little path, 
The blithely luring little path, 
That over the hillside lay. 

I found it crossed a tiny stream, 
A merry chattering stream, 
And passed by a silver maple tree, 
A cool, inviting maple tree, 
With its white bark all agleam. 

I followed the path for a mile, 
For a sweet enchanted mile, 
And found a maid at a cottage gate, 
A maid called Love at a cottage gate, 
And she met me with a smile. 

Now comes the call of the highway, 
The heartless, hard-paved highway, 
But never will I go back to it, 
Back to the heat and toil of it, 
But here with the maid I'll stay. 

Here with the maid called Love I'll stay. 

The maid with the magic way, 

The maid I found at the end of the path, 

The end of the luring little path 

That over the hillside lay. 


Qopper Hill 

By J. P. Pretlow 

The heavy-laden bus labors along the tortuous mountain road. The 
radiator steams in the heat. Tall pines shade the road here and there, 
mercifully cutting off some of the heat that makes the sides of the bus 
unbearable to the touch. Down into a ravine tumbles the road, and we lose 
our depression as the sun is shut out by overhanging trees. The engine's 
noises sink to a contented purr. Around a curve and into the blazing sun- 
light. On every side is bare, baked soil, made misty by rising heat devils, 
and stretching as far as the eye can see. Not a tree, not a blade of grass. 
Only stony clay, dull brown, and torn into deeply cut gullies and crumbly 

In the middle of the plain is Copper Hill. Unpainted shacks clinging 
to the steep sides of ravines. They have to be propped up, for with every 
rain the bare soil flows downhill with the water and cuts away their foun- 
dations. Sooty buildings are the works. Surrounded by piles of slag, some 
still glowing and giving off fumes of sulphur, the works rumble in activity. 

Copper Hill. Smoke and dirt. Little narrow streets, grimy and poorly 
lighted. Shiny store windows, filled with overalls and miners' lanterns. 

Copper Hill has the only stream of water in the thirty mile desert. 
And Copper Hill made the desert. The huge copper works left the fumes 
of its smelters free to flow over the surrounding country for years. The 
heavy sulphur smoke hugged the ground. The trees died. The grass died. 
Even the weeds died. Rains washed the topsoil away. With no check they 
tore at the earth, gouging out gullies, torturing the land. Now the sulphur 
is used in making acid, but nothing grows save stunted cactus. 

We walk through the town. There is a crowd collected by a brick 
building with barred windows. 

"Say Buddy, what's the excitement:" 

"Nothing much. Guy in there been beatin' his wife. Y'see her old 
man came and got a cop. I alius told him 'bout it, but he said he didn't give 
a dam'. Jus' the other day I says to him, 'You better watch out 'bout beatin' 
your wife ; and then he says to me, he says ..." 

--<( 1 9 )B*- 



In a cell of iron lattice work a shape is seen standing listlessly. By it sits 
a woman, ragged, flabby, tangled-haired, sobbing disgustingly into dirty 
hands, while three brats stand around, staring. A red-faced sheriff chews 
tobacco complacently. He spits at a rusty spittoon through dirty white 
mustaches. His aim is not good. 

Copper Hill Copper Co. Mazes of machinery, pipe lines, railroad 
lines, power lines. Nervous jiggly machines, bursting with energy. Slow 
moving potbellied machines. The furnaces seemingly idle, decorated with 
gauges and pipes. Apparently at will they cast forth tons of molten copper, 
then retire into twilight sleep for their next delivery. Everything clean, 
shiny. Dirty men move deftly. They seem little more than animated 
dusting cloths. 

We are herded into the cage, a signal is given, and we drop into the 
ground. A blackness, solid and wet. From the sides of the shaft pour 
streams of water. As we descend their volume increases until we are 
drenched as by a thundershower. So swift is our fall that miners seen at 
work in the levels we pass are caught in a single movement, as the camera 
catches and holds the runner. 

Twelve hundred feet down we stop. The air beats down on eardrums. 
There is a funeral hush, pierced by the hiss of air lines. Sounds are choked 
and distorted, with always the dropping of water. 

We tramp through long passageways. Dark openings appear on either 
side, some boarded up, some crushing down on splintering timbers like a 
great mouth closing on a bite of food. On the timbers are huge fungi, 
deathwhite and glistening. The throaty rattle of an air drill is heard. A 
distant grunt announces a blast. Suddenly we are at the end of the level. 
A group of men work, dripping with sweat and water that falls from the top 
of the working. Two men load a car. Two others run air drills. Another 
prepares charges of dynamite. The drills cease. We look on nervously as 
men tamp down the charges. They ram them home with a stick, and pound 
down bits of rock on top of them. Tools are picked up and moved. A silence 
disturbed by the hiss of air from pipes, drip of water. We crouch under a 
rock ledge. A series of grunts. Flying chips of rock scatter around us. The 
car loaders begin work again. 

Our guide points to a giant. Yelling in our ears he says that the fellow 
is smart. "He makes six dollars a day — loads fifteen ore cars — around ten 

As we leave the town, we see a crowd gathered about the police 


-••*;{ 20 }>■■■- 

The Dark Brother 
By Lewis Alexander 

"Loj 1 am black but I am comely too," 

Black as the night, black as the deep dark caves. 

I am the scion of a race of slaves 

Who helped to build a nation strong that you 

And I may stand within the world's full view, 

Fearless and firm as dreadnoughts on rough waves; 

Unfurling a banner high whose flight braves 

The opposition of the tried untrue. 

Casting an eye of love upon my face, 

Seeing a newer light within my eyes 

A rarer beauty in your brother race 

Will merge upon your visioning fullwise. 

Though I am black my heart through love is pure, 

And you through love my blackness shall endure! 




21 ►• 



Charm For host Innocence 
Jacques Le Clercq 

Dawn, creep upon her lightly, 
Margining in cool silver 
The rosy flush a deep sleep 
Laid on her childlike face, 
The faintest breeze of morning 
To whisper her awakening, 
Bubbles of sunlight bursting- 
Over her to trace 
A web of molten gold — 
Let her arise from bed, 
Gay against the actual day, 
Whimsically tender, 
To feed the sparrow on her sill 
With never in her head 
Remembrance of love's miracle 
In its disgust and splendor! 


G. A. Cardwell, Jr. 

Do the green rushes sigh all night: 
Does the marsh hen never sing? 
All night I hearken in the dusk 
And bless the salt wind's sting. 

The quick shadows under the water- 
Do they grow to be great fish? 
My wife is walking up the path ; 
I can hear the silken swish. 

She has another assignation. 
Her arms are round and bright. 
The Pleiades are close: the air is 
Will the rushes sigh all night? 


<{ 22 }> 

Topsy-turvy America! Reuben Bland, of Washington, N. C, the 
father of thirty-four children is an honored man. President Coolidge has 
granted him an audience and he has been given hundreds of inches in the 
news columns. Of these thirty-four children, nineteen are dead. One 
mother is dead. The second mother is mentioned only in a brief paragraph. 
Bland is being honored as a benefit to society. No account of his family has 
indicated that any of his children ever received a college education. No 
account has ever mentioned one of them who has achieved anything other 
than a living. Any animal can reproduce itself as fast as nature clears the 
way, but a human being was formerly expected to exercise some degree of 

To those who have followed the progress of the Committee of One 
Hundred, now called the Bible League of North Carolina, the new publica- 
tion, The Fundamentalist, published by Miss Julia Alexander, of Charlotte, 
and secretary to the League will give some interesting sidelights on just 
what the fundamentalists are trying to do in North Carolina. 

The editor, who was at one time a member of the state legislature, was 
defeated last summer in her race to sit again with the law-makers. Since 
that time the possibility of the fundamentalists becoming a political power 
in this state seems to have struck not only the editor but other leaders of 
the League with renewed force. In accordance with this idea of riding the 
Bible into power, the following passage is quoted from The Fundamentalist: 
"Since I must fight if I would reign, 
Increase my courage, Lord; 
I'll bear the toil, endure the pain, 
Supported by Thy word." — -Isaac Watts. 

' 23 }> 




Those who frequent our library have been deeply moved bv the 
unselfish actions of a certain group of readers who have shown their erudi- 
tion and public spirit by writing in the margins of all of the books they 
read short but pointed remarks that make everything plain to the most 
obtuse. The intelligent, too, are often struck by phrases that make the text 
more pregnant with meaning. 

We hesitate to use the word "appreciation" in speaking of these souls, 
for it does not quite express what we would say. We will have to await the 
coining of stronger terms. The following example shows this labor of love 
in all its flower. The text is from "Thais" by Anatole France. 

"... If only God exists, that He may damn me. I hope for it — I 
wish it. God, I hate Thee — dost Thou hear? Overwhelm me with Thy 
damnation. To compel Thee to, I spit in Thy face ....-" 

This bit of M. France's writing is made clear to all by this pencilled 

"Revolt against God." 7. P. P. 

A llegro Pronunciamento 
All honor to the man who's able 
To say, "I do not care for Cabell — 
In fact, I think he's poor as hell." 
Why is it that to curse Cabell 
Makes one a member of the rabble? 
My dear, it's just because he's Cabell. 

R. K. F. 

Lilith Shell sent us a rare bit of North Carolina literature the other day 
which we will quote with a preceding paragraph: 

"As a little child I remember my father taking me upon his knee and, 
like the artist he was, teaching me this classic: 

" 'I was bo'n and bred in Nawth Ca'lina, 
I'm half hoss and half alligator 
Mixed up with a snappin' turtle. 
I can eat my weight in wild cat cracklin's 
And whip any man of my inches.' " 

-Hg( 24 }>~ 

The Reverend Oscar Haywood of Montgomery county is busily con- 
ducting a persona] campaign of purification at the annual meeting of the 
state legislature. So far he has sponsored three hills, which, according to his 
lights, should do much to raise the mora] status of the commonwealth of 
North Carolina. First came the Anti-Petting Bill, a farcial attempt to 
restrain by Jaw a social reaction that is utterly beyond restraint. In order 
to successfully enforce such a measure it would be necessary to incarcerate 
all males and females in separate prisons. This was followed by a bill 
prohibiting the sale of contraceptives in the state. This well-meant endeavor 
to augment illegitimacy and disease in the name of law is an excellent 
example of the dangers underlying fanaticism. His third offering was 
comparatively trivial, a bill to prevent the sale of soft drinks on Sunday, 
and in this case he accepted an amendment which restricted the act to his own 
county. Similar amendments to all of the Reverend Haywood's motions 
would assure North Carolina of a fundamentally perfect community, a 
veritable capitol of the Blue Law Belt. We suggest opposition to cosmetics, 
the public sale of lingerie, the cinema, Lydia Pinkham's Vegetable Com- 
pound, modern novels and the outrageous mingling of young boys and 
girls on public playgrounds as further items in the Reverend gentleman's 
crusade for sweetness and light. 

R. K. F. 



At the recent performance of R'igoletto in Durham a naively priceless 
remark was made by one of the feminine members of the audience. Said 
she, leaning confidingly toward her' friend: "I hope you won't think me 
ignorant, but is the sextette from Lucia in this opera or is it in Faust?" 
It was indeed thoughtless of the Victor company to place the sextette on the 
same record with the R'igoletto quartette. America rushes even to musical 

R. K. F. 

25 \> 





(Continued from fage 16) 

Nonchalantly the child informed him: "It's a boat." 

"A — a what?" 

With the utmost patience the explanation was given: "It's a boat. A 
boat made out of stone. It's sailing way out, way, way out in the ocean. 
Then it'll sink, but the people won't get drowned — they'll swim home." 
Bobbie pushed the glittering, expensive mass toward the bed. 

Bennett stood transfixed, the lather drying on his face. In his ears were 
echoes of a boy's soprano yodelings. In his nostrils was a sudden pungent 
sting of leaf-smoke. 

In his eyes was an unaccustomed moisture. 

He reached impulsively toward his son. Then he drew back. "Oh," he 
said, to show that he understood. He turned and tiptoed from the room, 
closing the door behind him. 

He held the shaving brush once more poised. Then, "Oh, Dot," he 
shouted, "Listen. Tell the Blakes to go to Hell. I've got other plans." 

He listened until he heard the startled "What?" from below-stairs, and 
footsteps climbing. Then he hurled the shaving-brush through the open 

If he packed fast enough, he could make the seven-ten for the Maine 
woods. No gang, no style, no "modern conveniences." No fish, undoubted- 
ly. Well, what did he care? Ramble around by himself, do what he liked — 
because he liked. 

Some struggle with Dot, this was going to be. But he wouldn't give in. 
Not this time. 

"Bless you, old boy," he addressed the door, behind which he knew his 
son was still sailing an enchanted ship. 

The footsteps were approaching, increasing in tempo. Grimly, but con- 
fidently, he awaited the ordeal. 

-■<{ 26 fen- 

book bazaar 


The Difficulty of Getting Married 

The Hard-Boiled Virgin. By Frances Newman. Boni and Liverigi 

Miss Newman's first novel startles and pleases with its mechanical innovations 
and penetrating cleverness, but scarcely deserves the extravagant praise given it by 
Cabell and Mencken. One regrets that Miss Newman chose the medium of the 
novel for purposes of literary experimentation, for the reason that trick writing loses 
its flavor in excess of a hundred pages. Following an unsound modern penchant, she 
discards certain devices primarily intended to aid the reader, that suffering person no 
longer considered by our more advanced writers. There are no paragraphs — chapters 
being the sole divisions. The novelty of this tradition-smashing departure wears off 
rapidly, and becomes as irritating as Van Vechten's missing quotation marks. The 
total lack of conversation at first creates a feeling of relief, due to the slough of 
inanity into which conversation has fallen. However, after 285 pages of twisted and 
evasive thought transcription the most melodramatic of speeches would be welcome. 

The crux of Miss Newman's mechanical style is the periodic sentence, that 
lengthy, tortuous method of expression of which the Preamble to the Constitution 
furnishes an excellent example. Each sentence moves lazily through a channel of 
whens, in orders, whereases, conjunctions and relatives. A hundred words without a 
full stop is not uncommon. The crux of her literary style is a profound bantering, 
a gentle irony, a psychological adroitness. It is rather difficult to reconcile the light- 
ness of her ideas with the cumbersome weight of her attack. There is meat on every 
page and epigrammatic pleasantries abound, but actual labor is required to extract 
the worth-while from the maze of 18th century verbosity. The contradiction is 
comparable to a blank verse epic by Gelett Burgess. 

The heroine, Katharine Faraday, "born under the sign of Virgo and in the 
earlier Beardsley period," dramatizes her way through life, building up romances 
and illusions only to have them crumble at their most roseate height. The plot 
is simply a chart of her shifting reactions and emotions from an early age to woman- 
hood. Through her thoughts and the author's nimble asides we are given an intimate 
cross-section of the feminine mind (and surprisingly mundane it is), combined with 




satirical thrusts at chastity, the aristocratic South, prudery, literature, honorable 
intentions, the dominant male and the bonds of matrimony. It is all done with an 
iconoclastic zest. 

The content of the book is delightful, but, conservatively enough, I would have 
preferred less frequent allusions to babies, grey boxes and thin brown lines. They 
smacked of the sly pruriency of a little girl who has read some volume on obstetrics. 
Nor can I ever forgive Miss Newman for the endless monotony of "a book called" 
this-and-that by "a man called" so-and-so. 

R. K. Fowler 

A Soda-Jerker s Saga 

The Golden Dancer. By Cyril Hume. Doran. 261 pp. $2. 

A Saturday livening Post fantasy! This incongruity gives an index to the 
excellent work Cyril Hume has done with one of the conventional figures of con- 
temporary American fiction — the factory worker who detaches himself from his 
cogwheel. Albert Wells grows tired of his factory job, draws his pay and sets out to 
seek a job which will be more to his liking. He meets a young girl who tells him of a 
drug-store in the adjacent town which may be able to furnish him with employment. 

He goes to the place she suggests and with a sudden burst of inspiration, puts up 
his entire capital in exchange for a partnership in the soda fountain. Success follows 
as a matter of course. But from this point the story's similarity to an American 
Magazine epic ceases. Wells arouses the animosity of the good citizens of the town 
when he opens a dance hall behind his store, which proves too popular. A boycott 
and subsequent expulsion from the town follow. Wells, down and out again, is 
forced to return to the home of the girl, where he lies sick for a long time — long 
enough to become engaged and married to the girl. The story ends in a minor 
note, peculiar to Hume, for Wells finds himself satisfied with doing chores under 
the eye of his mother-in-law, and acting as a handy-man to the troubles and cares 
of a country-side. 

That is the skeleton story which Hume has used to carry his "hard-boiled fan- 
tasy." He has invested his character, Wells, incoherent though he is, with an ideal 
in the form of a vision of Daphne. Only half realizing what he searches for, Wells 
is lifted, without noticeable exaggeration, from a factory worker to a character, 
poetic and lyric in quality. He seeks always his brown-skinned "Dap-henny" who 
has become real to him. The author's use of paragraphs giving what one feels a more 
literate Wells could have voiced only serves to heighten the effect of poetry which 
is inherent in the slangy Wells. 

Minor characterizations and particularly those of the small town officials are 
clean-cut and satirical, while the "golden dancer" and others are done with a 
sympathy and understanding which shows Mr. Hume to be of and for the younger 

Heroic Disproportion 

Bellarion. By Rafael Sabatini. Houghton Mifflin Co. 446 pp. $2. SO. 

With a historical background, Rafael Sabatini has woven a rather charming 
romance about one Bellarion, a nameless waif who has been adopted by a soldier 
and placed in a monastery. The style is easy and Mr. Sabatini has done good work in 
description and conversation. His historical instances are non-essential hut they are 
so cleverly written into the story that the reader experiences no dullness in the 
accounts. But in Bellarion, the author has drawn a super-character. 

When Bellarion grows older, he leaves the monastery to learn a little of life and 
Greek, but through circumstance, he becomes mired in the bog of an inter-state 
revolution, and, falling in love with Princess Valeria who is in league with the 
conspirators, he continues to fight for the welfare of the girl and her brother, 
although his actions lead the Princess to believe that he is her enemy and a rogue, 
a coward, and a trickster. But Bellarion's worldly life is incongruous with the idea 
of the monastery, in that, immediately upon leaving his brother monks, he assumes the 
manner and cleverness of a sophisticated man of the world. He possesses an uncanny 
knowledge of men and of the ways of war, and this comes, no doubt, as a result of 
his prowess at chess, his every move being likened to those in the game. He is an 
adventurer, a statesman, a soldier, and a humanist. He is the super-man, lying with 
his lips but not with his heart, pure as Galahad and as "monstrous clever" as Jurgen, 
for he says, himself, that his wits are infallible. He rises from the gutter, a name- 
less wanderer of six years, to win the Princess Valeria and the title of Prince. 

Mr. Sabatini's ironical humor lends a great deal of life to Bellarion. The 
plot holds the reader's attention and is interestingly brought to a denouement in the 
last few pages, but Bellarion is too successful in his wars. He never suffers defeat 
and always turns defeat into victory. Bellarion, the book, is good reading, but 
Bellarion, the man, is merely an un-real character which has sprung from the 
romantic pen of the author. 

W. W. Anderson. 





Heaven Trees. By Stark Young. New York: Scribner's. 28 7 pp. $2. 

Heaven Trees, by Stark Young, critic and author of various books, is not a novel 
in a strict sense of the word; rather, it is an easy and leisurely done group of char- 
acter sketches. There is more of motive and valuation of the subtle than there is of 
motivation and linking of the episodic. 

The characters are all placed at "Heaven Trees," a great, warm plantation in the 
Mississippi of the fifties, whose walks and halls, fragrant with myrtle and rich in 
tradition, form typical background for a family of Southern kin folk with its slaves 

-:{ 29 




and cottonfields, its lovely ladies, and its gentlemen of traditional and indolent 
elegance, who hold long arguments over cold mint juleps with the ever present and 
always welcome guests. More — there is even a cool young impeccahle (tailored by 
Rambeaux & Rambeaux of Memphis), who plays an almost-villian as the forbidden 
suitor of the marriageable daughter. 

Although lacking in all the conventional devices for appeal — strange settings, 
stranger conflicts, and the boldly dominating character stalking through moments of 
gripping suspense — this novel is full of delicate and tale-like humor; and its living 
characters are woven into incidents varying from a note of keen tragedy to a 
predominance of sincere comedy. 

Besides the visiting aunts, uncles, cousins, etc., there are several prominent char- 
acters: Uncle George Clay, a great, jocular wag, whose practical joking is exceeded 
only by his gruff and patriarchal generosities. Miss Mary Cherry, who reminds her 
nephew of a silver mug, and who had the monstrous ill-luck of being blown, sitting 
bolt upright on a bale of cotton, down the Mississippi river. And Grand father 
McGehee, who, when his bride to be evinced a vulgar interest in finance, made her 
a How, saying, "Madam, pray accept my compliments, then, and permit me to say 
there will be no ceremony." And black Solomon, a little short-legged and pot-bellied 
Ethiop servant who jabbers away in African about his first Communion. The 
parson had given him the cup with the words: "Pass de goblet an' say, 'Brethren, 
jink ye all dis.' " 

"An' I junk it all," said Solomon. 

And — anecdote ad infinitum. 

/. O. Marshall 

Larghetto Con Moto 

Almost Pagan. By J. D. Beresford. Bobbs Merrill. 33 3 pp. $2.50. 

J. D. Beresford has given us a novel not striking, brilliant nor unique but 
delightful for the ease with which he draws his characters — which is, perhaps, the 
most outstanding accomplishment of Almost Pagan. One does not realize a char- 
acter has been set before him; rather does the character fade so easily and concretely 
into the mind of the reader that one can touch no certain spot and say, "Here is 

Henry Blackstone, writer of pleasant but lifeless novels, has been married 
twenty-two years to an unimaginative wife. The family is vaguely divided, his 
wi?e and twenty-one year old son on one side, he and his daughter on the other. 
Henry's life is one continuous procession of quiet and uneventful details. He has 
never known romance nor has he ever loved a woman other than his wife. His soul 
needed waking and the acquaintanceship of a girl who has informed Henry that he 
is probably an illegitimate grandfather enables him to emerge from the yoke of 
suppressed emotions and moth-eaten ideas and to become a man learned in the ways 

-hK 30 \>~ 

of the younger generation and of life itself. Henry's life is clearly portrayed in a The 

rather delicate and subtle manner, a life one enjoys the liberty of peeping secretly 



^ L L , L • , , L , • , MAGAZINE 

1 he book has a restrained style but this only tends to make its drama more 

poignant and intimate. Mr. Beresford, an Englishman, is considered by his fellow 

countrymen to be a master of the psychological novel and his latest book, Almost »<mb« 

Pagan, offers convincing proof of this statement. The plot is interesting enough to 

hold the reader's attention for it is neither too shallow nor too intricate. Almost February 

Pagan is a rather well-told story of modernism versus Victorianism. 7 927 

W. W. Anderson. 

Books Received and to be Reviewed 

Angel. DuBose Heywood. Doran. 287 pp. $2. 

This Day's Madness. By The Author of "Miss Tiverton Goes Gut." Bobbs 

Merrill. 346 pp. $2.50. 
Shoot. Luigo Pirandello. Button's. 3.34 pp. $2.50. 
Before The Bombardment. Osbert Sitwell. Doran. 344 pp. $2.50. 
Mississippi Steamboating. Herbert and Edward Quick. Henry Holt. 339 pp. $3. 
Marcabrun. Ramon Guthrie. Doran. 260 pp. $2.50. 
Chevrons. Leonard H. Nason. Doran. 339 pp. $2. 

-hS( 3 1 &>■- 




The Ordeal of the Young Intellectual 

(Continued fro,,: page S) 

tendencies, if the inhibitions of the individual are permanent, as demanded 
by society, an outlet is sought through the doll of the little girl, the kissing 
games of childhood, and, later, chivalry and extreme courtesy, sex fantasies 
and coarse jokes. All of these are defense mechanisms of the individual 
arising from inhibited sex desires, just as criticism and cynicism arise from 
the tendency to control the behavior of others and thereby compliment the 
ego, which demands self-expression and power. Sex perversions are not 
new in literature, but there has been a recent flare, which accompanied the 
innovations of the radical young poets and writers since the advent of the 
striking publication, Poetry, in 1918. Sex perversions and complexes are 
noticeable in the works of Floyd Dell, Herbert Gorman, and Carl Van 
Vechten. The ultimate motivation in such works lies in the failure of the 
natural sex activities as an outlet for the sex desires. The suppression, or 
inhibition, of these natural activities is so maintained that fantasies on the 
subject of sex appear. Suppression of sex tensions in an intellectual almost 
invariably gives rise to sex fantasies. Such stories as "Slaves" may be 
either a genuine product of such sex inhibition, or more probably, it may- 
have resulted from an impressionable young genius, who, following the 
movement in present day writing, seized upon an ever fascinating sub- 
ject — sex — and gave it a dramatic twist, the touch of the artist rather than 
an indication of a real sex-perversion. 

The analysis up to this point has been largely critical, but surely there 
is something that the "intellectual" possesses which the average student 
lacks. He most certainly does possess a distinctive characteristic which is 
generally lacking among students ; he has — the attitude of the artist. The 
artistic ideal is a happy blend of mental playfulness and seriousness. He is 
inclined to be nonchalant, indifferent, and devil-may-care towards things of 
general interest to others, but of no interest to himself. If he dwells too 
much upon amassing information, studying, reading for information, and 
research in the library, his technique develops at the expense of the artistic 
spirit. If the animating idea exceeds the command of method, aesthetic 
feeling is shown, but the art of presentation is too defective to express the 
feeling thoroughly. The true artist thinks of the end embodied in proper 
means, or recognizing the end, is inspired to give attention to the means j 

-4 32 }>■- 

the young intellectuals here have that attitude. We must not be too critical The 

if they sometimes show that their command of method exceeds their com CAROLINA 
mand of information and experience. MAGAZINE 

When we study the individual of exceptional ability in his relation to 
the crowd, we immediately realize that the fault is not so much with the ••<.,„<,.. 

individual as it is with the system of education that requires him to "bootleg" 
his thoughts and to remain in constant jeopardy so long as he thinks and February 

criticizes. Look at one specific instance showing the two extremes of college 1927 

life: A crowd of two thousand shouting itself hoarse at a football game, 
while a solitary individual meditates a theme of high importance on some 
country road. This is no discredit to the crowd, but consider which is the 
better exercise and which produces the more important results. The one 
situation creates an attitude of submissive acceptance and a passive mental 
attitude; the other develops individuality, originality, self-reliance, and 
concentration. We have too many here in the crowd; we need more thinking- 
solitaries, and we must grow them. We have too many gregarious students. 
They are afraid of the solitude, afraid of their own thoughts, dubious 
about relying upon themselves. We have become too social ; ask any student 
whether "bull" sessions take up too much of his time. The hundreds of 
campus organizations have mai^e solitude impossible, yet it is the leisure 
and silence of solitude that results in mental growth and the perfecting of 
ideas. We may have ideas in the crowd, but it requires solitude and leisure 
to think, to work over the vague and casual into the coherent and definite. 
The man who withdraws from the clamor to meditate, to compare, to weigh, 
and to construct silently, is following the only royal road to compact and 
coherent conclusions. Our over-organized and over-socialized campus looks 
askance at the thinker, and regards him as an outsider who is "peculiar." 
After all it is a question — which is right, the intellectual or the student 

Education itself is at fault in the matter. In the immense growth of 
knowledge a halo has been placed about the head of the walking encyclo- 
pedia, the human depository of knowledge; information has become an end 
rather than a means to an end, and in rilling the mind with cold, concise, 
hard facts the individual tendencies of the mind are gradually eclipsed. A 
man who conscientiously follows the system is too often prepared for only 
one thing — to teach; in learning facts he has forgotten how to think. 
Education must not only inform, it must inspire. The personal influence of 




real teachers, not fact-crammed graduate students, counts for more than 
any pedagogy. Teaching boys to think for themselves is training of greater 
value than statistical information. We have teachers here, men whose 
personalities and methods encourage thought, who are really thinking and 
who are inspiring their students to think. Such men are not only teaching 
their subects, but their thinking is adding to those subjects j they are mature 
"intellectuals.'" It is well enough to know Chaucer, but there are men here 
who probably can write better than Chaucer, but who are certainly not 
encouraged to. A man may receive a Master's degree by counting the split 
infinitives in Tennyson, yet there is no attempt worthy of the name to dis- 
cover and develop mental processes leading men to write as well as Tenny- 
son. If one should discover the lady of Shakespeare's sonnets, he would 
receive loud acclaim; if one should find the story of Shakespeare's lost 
years at Stratf ord-on-Avon and in London, he would be showered with hon- 
orary degrees. Yet, no university in America will give a Master's degree 
for a creative work, such as a novel or play, though that work may be of 
recognized merit and real genius. Upton Sinclair tried it at Columbia 
University, and they laughed at him. It is well to know English, but it is 
better to be able to use it, it is well to be an oracle of reference in banking 
and currency, but it is better to offer an original solution to a business prob- 
lem. Genius has always been regarded as a gift needing neither training 
nor experience, but something is wrong with our universities when President 
W. W. Ellsworth, of the Century Company, publishers, said that he had 
known young people of creative faculty who came from college familiar 
with Addison and Browning, but "utterly unable to express an original 
thought." Out of a thousand manuscripts submitted to his company in one 
year, forty-one were accepted, and not one out of the forty-one was by a 
new writer. Twenty-five years ago a London newspaper made a survey 
of London genius only to find that out of one hundred and sixteen promi- 
nent authors, journalists, painters, sculptors, and actors, one hundred and 
four had received no English public school education. There is surely 
something about our educational system which is smothering the creative 

Matthews in Principles of Intellectual Education makes the following- 
comment which throws a gleam of light upon the specific error in modern 

"The aim of education is not knowledge, but power ... to use our 
original powers in our original way . . . an ounce of originality, of fresh 

~*4 34 ]Jh- 

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contribution to the thought of the world, is worth tons of knowledge gath- 
ered by others and stored away in the lumber rooms of our minds like 
treasures in a chest that no one ever sees. To spend our time in cultivating 
the acquisitive power manifested chiefly in memory . . . would be an 
infinite gain at the cost of apparent immediate loss." 

Our colleges and universities are like factories which turn out the 
manufactured article by the thousand — according to pattern. To change 
these factories into forums where individual differences will be recognized 
and originality cultivated is a task of supreme difficulty, but there is no 
need for us to shirk our duty in failing to do this, nor is there need to go 
about it as an anarchist or blue-nosed reformer. To accomplish this task 
men of keen discrimination must determine the relative values of the new 
and the old, and such a work must be slowly done, but the persistent trend 
should be toward a fuller realization of the importance of the individual 
and the development of originality and creative tendencies, rather than the 
present haphazard, irrational procedure? which shackles originality and 
places a premium upon the ape-like talent of imitation and the parrot-like 
attainment of rote learning of empirical formulae, mind-murdering out- 
lines, and deadening diagrams. In learning the cut-and-dried copy of 
mature logic the youth is induced to stultify his own vital and subtle logical 
movement j it is this very formalism that has given the present stigma to the 
word "pedagogy," which has become a synonym for mechanical schemes that 
destroy the personality. Our methods are the German military methods of 
leveling j the drills, methods and discipline should, but do not, make effect- 
ive by gradual exercise the native endowments of the individual. Instead, 
the enforced mechanical routine and heavy burden of assigned work pro- 
duces mechanical automatons marked by mental passivity, who in turn 
accept the premium placed upon calm conformity and acceptance of medi- 
ocrity. This sticky, doughy democracy in its colorless lifelessness resents 
individualism and hammers relentlessly at the student who strives to assert 
his own originality free from the compulsions of the "divine average" and 
the crowd. 

Bronner says in The Psychology of Special Abilities and Disabilities: 
"Educational dissatisfaction (arising from loss of interest, discourage- 
ment, or the feeling of inefficiency ) is a very frequent beginning of what may 
develop into a long career of misdeeds. The regular curricula and methods 

<{ 36 ja»- 

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Printers of College Publications that 
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are not achieving success in the case of those who have peculiarities which 
require special consideration. The loss is economic, financial, and social." 

In referring to what should be the active aim of education Dewey states 
in How We Think: 

"Unless education develops a lively, sincere, and open-minded prefer- 
ence for conclusions that are properly grounded, and ingrained into the 
individual's working habits, methods of enquiry, and reasoning appropriate 
to the various problems that present themselves, no matter how much an 
individual knows as a matter of hearsay and information, if he has not 
habits and attitudes of this sort, he is not intellectually educated." 

The only undergraduates here at the University who could really be 
said to conform to this standard of the educated man are the few scattered 
"intellectuals," that little minority concerning which one of our professors 
said that "they are the students who save the lives of the college professors ; 
otherwise, many professors would be driven to suicide through an over- 
whelming sense of failure." These "intellectuals" are driven by the 
culture motive. Facts as they are generally presented produce the "greasy 
grind," not because the facts are interesting, but because they are dealt out 
as such hard, cold, concise things. If facts are presented in a suggestive 
way, stimulating the imagination and "leaving the brain in a bonfire," a 
deep, thorough culture should follow as a matter of course. Such a presen- 
tation brings to the student the experience of others as partly his own, and 
only then does fact-cramming become really educative. We do not give- 
enough attention to the individual tendencies. We care for the crippled, 
the youths of talent who mould society in later years. We leave them to 
the youth of talent who moulds society in later yea'-s. We leave them to 
chance. We require a future journalist to spend six months cursing and 
reviling a mathematical analysis which he will never use; we require a 
future sculptor or painter to spend more than a year trying to master 
foreign idioms and queer grammar forms, and demand the future country- 
banker to study a dry course involving the development of the English 
commons. Such educational eccentricities and paradoxes are all about us. 
We have no proper scheme for detecting individual talents and getting the 
best out of the student; the "intellectual" is using his own initiative in a 
trial-and-error search for the genuine culture that a university should freely 

-•<38 )8>~ 


Blue Ribbon 
Ice Cream 

Special colored blocks to conform 

to Class, Sorority or Frat colors 

for your banquets 

Dial L-963 

Durham Ice Cream 
Company, Inc. 

Durham, N. C 





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to P< 





NF 69 

, . + 




University Consolidated 
Service Plants 

Victrolas, Pianos and 


Durham, North Carolina 

The Writers 

John V. A. Weaver, well known poet and playwright, lived in Char- 
lotte, North Carolina, prior to his going northward. He is the author of 
numerous plays, and has published several volumes of poems. "In Ameri- 
can," and "More In American" are the names of two of the latter .... 
Lilith Shell now lives in Pennsylvania but she sends a little quatrain 
found in another part of this issue, to prove that she was born in this state 
. . . . R. K. Fowler is the Assistant Editor of The Magazine .... 
Clinton Scollard has contributed before to The Magazine, and is the 
author of a number of volumes of verse .... Howard Mumford Jones 
provoked much comment with his article, "The Advancing South," last 
month. He is publishing another volume of his verse, and the University 
Press will bring out a treatise by him, this spring .... Padraic Pretlow 
is one of the co-editors of "The Pasture" .... Ellen M. Carroll has 
several poems in this volume of The Magazine. She lives in Charleston, 
S. C. . . . Jacques Le Clercq has just published "A Sorbonne of The 
Hinterland," one of the Dial Press's "Little Books of New Poetry" .... 
G. A. Cardwell, Jr., was editor of The Buccaneer last year. He is now 
seeking inspiration — and funds — in Wilmington .... Lewis Alexander 
is one of the voung negro poets associated with the new magazine, Fire, 
a publication of the young negro intellectuals in and around New York. 



it the club-house] 

Camel attracts the quality smoker 

CAREFUL observation will reveal 
that men of quality demand quality 
in a cigarette — smoke Camels. A 
Camel smoker goes straight to the 
point in cigarettes and demands 

For there are no better tobaccos 
or blending than you get in Camels. 
There is no other cigarette taste 
and fragrance that can compare 
with Camels, because they are 
rolled of the choicest Turkish and 

Domestic tobaccos grown. In a ciga- 
rette, as in the smoker, there is noth- 
ing that can substitute for quality. 
If you want to know what ex- 
perienced smokers like, just try 
Camels. Each year new millions try 
them all and find in Camels enjoy- 
ment realized. Camels never tire 
the taste. To test the quality of 
Camels, compare them with any 
cigarette made regardless of price. 
"Have a Camel!" 


Natural tobacco 
taste has the 
"call" these days 

Smokers have certainly 
made their preference clear 

Liggett & Myers Tobacco Co. 



* -^r-^'iStj ^ 





Controlled by the Publications Union 
n Starr, Jr., Editor Virginia Lay, Art Editor R. K Fowler, Assistant Editor 

L. H. McPherson, Business Manager 
KlLLIAN BARW1CK, Assistant Business ManaRer 


MARCH, 1927 



Vagabond (Poem) Jacques LeClercq 

Ole Sister (Sketches) E. C. L. Adams 

Symposium on Marriage 

Dreams (Poem) Herbert Drennon 

Four Translations From the German ( Poems) Ruth Wind 

Discovery (Poem) Jacques LeClercq 

Goat (Story) Byron White 

Elegaic (Poem) Nannie Herndon Rice 

A Study in Pragmatism (Poem) Herbert Drennon 

Cool Lady (Poem) Jacques LeClercq 

Book Bazaar 
The Writers 


By Jacques Le Clercq 

He would follow his star, 

Careless if he land 

In Turkestan, Zanzibar 

Or Togoland 

(A somewhat peculiar 

Sort of a stand! ) 

Steadfast, he would follow, 
Never falter, never fail, 
Up-mountain, down-hollow 
Over hill and dale, 
Let sick and weak men wallow, 
Penned beside the trail. 

Crusader, warrior, 

His dreams dwelled unbroken, 

But, born in Peoria, 

He died in Hoboken — 

Not a whit the sorrier 

By any outward token. 

4\ ft 




Ole Sister 

Negro Sketches 
By E. C. L. Adams 

Bruser: Dey show is been a turn- 
over down to de old street; every kind 
er mix-up, niggers fighten every which 
a way. 

Tad: Wuh de matter ail em? 

Bruser: Old Sister start sompen. 

Scip: Dat's wha Ole Sister good for. 
Carrying news and putten pizen out. 

Bruser: She done put de pizen out 
up de street, den she pass on she look 
dat satisfy. 

Scip: Pass on to put pizen out some 
wey else. 

Tad: You aim think all dat 'bout 
Ole Sister, is your She look so Chris- 
tian. Ain't I see her in church and 
meeten look like she always prayen and 
beggen God to forgive poor sinners. 

Scip: She tongue forked just like a 
snake, one half on it drips prayers and 
tother half turns loose ruination, and 
den she talk so sweet 'bout God and 
how she give agvice and do everything 
she kin do to save her friend. 

Voice: She wouldn't live long if 
she ain't been able to ring de heart 
strings loose from some er dem people 
she say she friend to, I done watch Ole 

Scip: Ole Sister's business is other 
folks' business; she are a upright 'oman; 
she ain't never do no wrong; she know 
how to pray in de public place. 

Voice: Dey tells me it was folks like 
Ole Sister 'casion Christ to be crucify. 

Scip: Well, Christ pick out two 
thieves to go wid him, you ain't see no 
Ole Sisters hanging on de cross wid 

Voice: Wuh you reckon he do dat 
for? You think he ain't been able to 
die right if he had anything wusser 
than them thieves? 

Scip: I ain't say nothing 'bout that. 

Tad: I reckon she so satisfy, she rub 
she self 'bout de way she and God live. 

Tad: Ole Man Daniel tell we dat 
way back in slavery time dere been a 

-■«( 3 )§►- 



nigger dey call him Gabel. He say Gabel 
been a kind man, double jinted and soft 
talking; everybody come to Gabel when 
'struction start. He ain't luh no man 
beat he wife, ef de 'oman come to him 
for perfection. He pcrtect everything in 
trouble, mens and womens, but other 
times he ain't take nothing to do wid no- 
body. He were always a peace-maker, 
less somebody push him too far, and he 
ain't have to larn many un em. Ole man 
Daniel say Gabel been courtin' a pritty 
gal, and one day one ur dem old sister 
spile her name, and run to her wid 
all kind er tales 'bout herself, and run 
to she friends and tell tales to everybody, 
she just strew dat little innocent gal's 
name, and claim she only talking in 
friendship, but she kept on talkin' and 
Gabel mighty nigh loss he mind, he 
fret so. Atter while dey torment de lit- 
tle gal so till one day she swallow a 
handful of bottle glass, and Old Sister 
had her time moanin' at de settin' up 
and de funeral, she walk 'round lookin' 
as pious as a buzzard hoppin' 'round a 

Voice: He 

Sop: Dey got a particular 
hell for em, and when a sinner i 
weeked, dey throws him in de pen wid 
dem ole sisters, and dey picks de smoke 
off he bones and chats 'round him like a 
bunch of blackbirds. 

Voice: Hell must be a bad place. 

Scip: Brother, you know hell is a 
bad place when dey got generations of 
ole sisters pen up together, for de pun- 
ishment of poor sinners. 

Voice: It must be worse than bad, 
de fire is wusser nuff. 

Another Voice: Dat must be de 
bottomless pit I hear so much talk 'bout 
way all dem all sister. 

Tad: I reckon we better pray. 

Bruser: Who dat comin' yonder? 

Voice: Dat's Ole Sister now. 

be full of Ole 


Several Voices: We best be 

Tad: Less we pray. 

Scip: Set still, brothers, prayin' and 
leffen neither one guine to stop Ole 
Sister's tongue. Set still, brothers, and 
take your honey and pizen now. Day 
is only one way out and dat's ter cut 
your thoat from year to year, and ef 
you do dat, it will be Ole Sister's pleas- 
ure, all you do is to fill Ole Sister's 
pizen sack again and start her fresh on 
her road of 'struction. Set still, she only 
talks to her friends 'bout her friends, 
she is a good ooman, she prays and 
shouts, she got two worlds, dis world 
and hell and she mighty nigh done turn 
dis world into hell, it's wusser dan hell 

Tad: Less we pray. 

Scip: I done tell you prayin' ain't 
guh help you wid Ole Sister, way dey 
is most prayin' dere is most Ole Sister. 
Set still and let de ole moccasin whisper 
in your year. 

Ole Sister: Brothers, how is you? 

Several Voices: How is you, Sister? 

Tad: I just been sayin' ef everybody 
was like you, Sister, dis world would be 
a good world to live in, but people is 
so weeked, ain't nobody can control cm. 

Voice: Ain't dat de truth Tad 
spoke ? 

Another Voice: Jesus knows. 

Tad: Sister, what's de news? 

Scip: Sister's heart is heavy, Tad, 
she try so hard to bring peace and good 
behavior. Sister too busy tryin' to save 
sinners to have news. 

Ole Sister: Brother Scip, you knows 
my heart, it is weary wid tryin' to save 
people. I mighty nigh done talk my 
heart out geeing agvice to dat gal of 
Riah's. I talk to her and ain't never 
say a word 'bout her to nobody. She 
my friend and I wants to save her. I 
stands by my friends, and I sets example 
for dem. 

-<{ 4 }§*"- 

Tad: Do Jesus, less we pray. 

Voice: Amen. 

Several Voices: Amen. 

Tad: God loves Ole Sister. 

Sell*: Ole Sister are a Messed ooman. 

Old Sister: Well, my brothers, I 
tries to live right, but my trials is heavy. 
Ain't nobody can tell who dey friend. 
Now, dere's dis here gal Ellen. I seen 
her walkin' wid Mensa two time an' 
havin' compersation. Her an' me is 
good friends. We go every wey wid 
one another, an' I axe her wuh she see 
in Mensa, an' wuh de whole comper- 
sation 'bout, an' she say, "Is I broke 
any law? If I wants to talk wid 
Mensa, wuh make I ain't can talk to 
him?" Ain't you see how her mind run? 
An' I ain't never say a word 'bout her, 
cepen I went to Pooch an' Big Daughter 
an' Sister Janie an' Rachel an' I tell dem 
'bout it an' axe dem to intercede an' 
I tell dem not to breath it to nobody. 
Wha' more kin I dor I is Ellen's 
friend, but I got to stan' by my Jesus 
too. Ain't none of we can serve two 

SciP: Sister, I ain't see where you 
can do no more dan you has done. Ellen 
oughts to love you. 

Tad: Here comes Mensa. Sister, is 
you talk to Mensa? 

Old Sister: No, I ain't said nothin' 
to Mensa, an' I ain't say nothin' 'bout 
Mensa. He so curious an' he so vigus 
he ain't never had no reason, an' he 
ain't got no conscious. He ain't got no 
right to run wid Ellen. He run after 
too much women. Well, I must tell 
you all good day. Mensa so 'spicious, if 
I stays here he mought think I been 
talkin' 'bout him an' Jesus know I ain't 
never called he name to nobody. Good 
day, my brothers. 

Mensa: Gentlemens! 

Several Voices: Howdy! Wha's 
de timer Ber Mensa. 

Sop: Brother, you is a little 'lated. 
Dat ole gal of yourownt is jes lef we. 

Mensa: T seen Ole Sister lef here. 
You ain't mean her, is you? er ole two 
face-ed wench. 

Tad: Brother, you ain't ought to 
nuse them hard words 'bout er Christian 
ooman that gits down on her knees ami 
prays to God to save your soul. 

Mensa:- I ain't axed de ole she rat 

av to 

Calm ye-self, i 

brother. Ole 
Sister ain't say nothin' 'bout you. She 
jes tell we she ain't never call your 
name, neither this here gal Ellen. You 
know she Ellen's friend, an' Ole Sister 
take so much interest in she friends. 

Mensa: It looks like dat's de kind 
er people God got all 'round here 
pray in' for Him. Jesus! If I could 
fasten my hand on her th'oat one time, 
I'd make her eye-balls jump out. But 
dere ain't no nuse, dere is so much 
hypocrite in dis world, dey all got low- 
down minds. You can do anything ef 
you doos it in de name of God, ef you 
don't do it to a Christian hypocrite. 
Some time it seems to me I could nat- 
urally set in de chair to git my satis- 

Voice: Be patient, brother. 

Tad: My agvice is to go on your 
way rejoicing, 'tend to your own busi- 
ness an' don't pay no 'tention to Ole 
Sister. Time she find out you guh hab 
your own way, she luh you 'lone. Ole 
Sister got a kind er mind dat don't 
dwell long on sompen she can't hurt. 
She got a selfish mind, she so stucked on 
she self, she ain't nobody's friend; she 
think she are a friend, but she ain't no 
friend. Her hide is thick as a ox hide, 
an' she don't belongs to 'sociate wid no 
other kind er mind. 

Mensa: Tad, you is right. 

(Ellen conies icp. Greetings ex- 

Ellen: Is you all see Ole Sister? 

Scip: Yes, she ain't so long lef here. 

Ellen: Wey she gone? 



-4( 5 J8h- 



Mensa: De ole devil is gone on de 
devil's business. She been servin' de 
devil 'tendin' to he business an' other 
people's business. 

Tad: Don't say dat, Mensa, think 
wha' you has a mind to think, but don't 
let no evil thoughts run out on your 

Ellen: Shut your mouth, Mensa, 
Ole Sister my friend; she say she my 

Scip: She you friend, she say she 
you friend. I beared her say it. 

Mensa: Come on, Ellen', I'll walk 
a piece er de way home wid you. 

Ellen: You can walk a piece er 
de way. 

(They depart.) 

Ellen: Mensa, I thinks a heap er 
you, but I can't stan' for Ole Sister an' 
all un 'em talk. She my friend an' I 
loves you more'n all un 'em, but I can't 
gee up my friends for you, an' Ole 
Sister tell me she an' she friends ain't 
guh have nothin' to do wid me ef I 

don't drap you, an' I ain't able to fight 
all un 'em. She say you is a bad man, 
an' course dey will stan' by me, but 
dey ain't like it. 

Mensa: Dey will stan' by you long 
enough to cut your th'oat. 

Ellen: Dey has already done cut 
my th'oat. Long as dey kin keep me 
whipped, dey ain't guh lef me. 

Mensa: I'll try an' be friend wid 

Ellen: Dat ain't no good, ef one 
un 'em were drownin' an' you save 'em, 
dey would say you done it jes so you 
could see me. 

Mensa: Ellen, I is all broked up. 
I guh lef* you now. Honey, don't for- 
git me. I ain't no worse dan you 

Ellen: God be wid you, Mensa. 
Ef it do you any good, jes 'member I 
belongs to you. I love you an' I got 
friends an' I ain't never guh forgit 
how dey sting me. Good bye. 

Mensa: Honey, good bye. 

Ole Sister In Heaven 

Tad: Scip, is you all ever hear 'bout 
the big sturbance dey have in heaven? 

Scip: Wuh kind er 'sturbance? Look 
like dey have nuff 'sturbance here. Dey 
ain't gone to havin' 'sturbance in heav- 
en, is dey? 

Bruser: Tell we, Tad. 

Tad: I ain't know for certain it de 
trute, but I heared an' it soun' kind er 
pamelia to me. 

Voice: Less we hear it, Ber Tad. 

Tad: Well, one time one er dem 
old sister dead an' slipped into heaven 
duenst a big storm. She ain't hit de 
bottom er de stairs 'fore she start som- 

Voice: How you reckon she slip in, 

Tad: Everything git so rough ole 
man Peter lef de gate wid one her he 

chillun an' went to help Gabel close de 
windows. De wind was blowin' at 
such a rate it look like it were guh blow 
all de shutters off, an' rain was comin' 
so fast it was spilin' de carpet. It 
blowed some of de angels out er de 
trees. Angels was mess up all over 
Heaven. Dere been so much feather 
scatter 'round it look like all de angels 
in heaven was moultin'. It 'stroy some 
er dey nes', an' little angels was layin' 
all 'round on de ground cryin' an' hol- 
lerin'. A turn er dem been out in de 
garden playin', some un 'em was jes 
larnin' to fly. Some of dey wing feath- 
ers ain't start to sprout yet. Most of de 
chillun out in de garden ain't been ole 
enough to fly, dey was layin' all around 
under rose bush an' tangled up in vine. 
Gabel been so busy he ain't know he 
(Continued on page 36) 



A Student Symfosiu) 

ing this student ^-whk RECREATION of our kind, 

the subject of (• // , ,- , , , 

«> MAGAZINE II ^ r ° manCe 0i dJ thC ^ S > 

3 /><■//<?/- /'w//o- in the life oi the youth of 

C In ft 


could find no better 
due/ion for it than this first 
article which was written by 
ii married woman who is the 
mother of a nineteen year old 
daughter. The other articles 
are the frank expressions of 
opinion written by eight 
young men and women in 
the following order: An 
individualistic graduate; an 
engaged girl; a graduate 
student; a selfish man ; a girl 
who has done social work; 
an engaged man ,■ a young 
married man; a modern girl. 

f our kind, the basis of all 
vital force 
youth of today but no 
more vital than it was to the boy and girl of yester- 
day. The girl with her bare knees and sleeveless 
bodice and with whatever clothing she deigns to 
wear outlining every curve of her beautiful body 
has no more consciousness of her ability to lure the 
male than had her sister of the "leg o' mutton" 
sleeves and the long, full, stiffly crinolined skirt. 
The youth with the flip-flapping collegiate trous- 
ers, the flaming tie, the cigarette and no hat is no 
more easily lured than was that other be-whiskered 
youth with his hands awkwardly grasping the 
lapels of his coat (when they were not clasping the slender waist of some 
charmer ). 

The trouble with "us elders" is that we have forgotten the thrills of 
our youth in the great practicality and prudence of our age and we are 
horrified at the boldness of our boys and girls without remembering the 
sweetly secret philandering of our own youth. 

Youth today is what it was twenty years ago — fifty years ago — a 
hundred years ago. With only this difference, a commendable one at that; 
the present day youth is frankly amorous (is it not so? ) while the youth of 
the past was secretly so. 

My lover kissed me — oh, so boldly and passionately, yes! a boy to 
whom I was not engaged and to whom I never expected to be. But he kissed 
me as did others along about thirty years ago. And I liked it. When I look 
back now I should have had a very barren and empty life without the thrills 
of this love making. It was my right — and I took it. But if my parents 
had charged me with any such thing as this promiscuity ( a thing they never 

-4( 7 }*■- 



did, oh, dear no. They were far too modest to think of such a thing) I 
should have lied profusely and blackly about it. Nothing could have 
induced me to admit it. I would have considered myself disgraced forever 
if people had known that these boys had kissed me — mark you — if people 
had known it. 

But last night my daughter who is nineteen came into my room at two 
a. m. and sank happily upon my bed, 

"Gee, mother, but Harold can kiss you!" 

Always, of course, the great fear among "us elders" is that the boy or 
girl will "go wrong." Well, they will and they do but so did we and so did 
they of the generations long gone. That business of "going wrong" has been 
one of the thrillers of the ages. 

For myself I am strong for the modern youth. I believe the only sin ( ? ) 
we can lay up against him (or her) is frankness, — just plain open-and-above 
board-ness. And we of the other generations were guilty of secretiveness. 
Which is worse? 

Marriage is the compromise of man with mankind, of humanity with 
nature. It is the bitter admission that the individual is not self sufficient. It 
is evidence that of all creatures man is most miserably adapted to nature. 
It is one of the many sardonic refutations of man's teleological dream of a 
universe of harmony and order and design. 

Biological marriage, or the temporary union of the sexes for the grati- 
fication of desire, is not in itself enslavement. But coupled by an accident of 
nature with the reproductive function and its attendant responsibilities it has 
been transformed through social necessity into an institution. 

Institutional marriage, an abortive makeshift growing out of economic 
necessity, was sponsored first by the clan and adopted in turn by the church, 
the social mores, and the state. Modified by each successive foster parent 
it has become distorted so that today our American form of monogamic 
marriage is an anachronism. 

Sacramental marriage has placed a false glamour upon an archaic insti- 
tution and developed a vast deal of cant. Despite the obvious fact that no 
woman can possibly be the complement of any man the church says "these 
twain are now become one flesh" ; and shutting its eyes it unites them "till 
death do us part," licensing them to indulge in the most sinful and worldly 
pleasures of the flesh. 

-~€{ 8 }>°~ 

Civil marriage blindly ignores the fundamental function of the insti 
tution. The state is not interested in the sex relations of its members; any 
custom from promiscuity to abstinence is equally satisfactory. It is interested 
only in the result — the producing of children — and in the transmission or 
property. Thus marriage is made easy and divorce difficult, whereas the con 
trary should be the case. Thus also is the individual sacrificed for posterity. 
Marriage is the compromise of man with mankind. 

What then is the solution; Free and unrestricted divorcer Trial mar- 
riage? Free love with institutional care of children and economic inde- 
pendence of women, as Russia is attempting: Perhaps. Each of these 
progressively would be a forward step, but none of them is either probable 
or perfect. As the mathematical pi is forever incommensurable, the problem 
of marriage is by nature unsolvablc. Its dual functions are unrelated and at 
variance, but they are not separable, thanks to a sardonic trick of nature. 

What then shall the individual dor To the young man, puzzled whether 
to marry or remain celibate, Socrates says, "Whichever you do you'll regret 
it." Punch is more explicit: "Don't." When emotionally unbiased the 
answer is easy. But there again nature plays us a trick. Under the powerful 
though temporary urge of the sex instinct reason is dethroned. Added to 
this tremendous force is the encouragement of the church, the sanction of 
the law, and the approval of society. With such fortuitous conditions the 
reluctance of man to marry and the subsequent regrets as evidenced more 
and more, daily bear eloquent testimony on the subject. 

With women there is of course no question. With all the cant about 
equality and enfranchisement women are still chattels and economic para- 
sites and slaves. Their role in life is that of the huntress. Their whole 
training is designed toward the enhancement of their allurements. They 
are not individuals; they are pretended "complements" of man. 

But man? The sex instinct is aberrant and explorative. Emotions arc 
ephemeral. And the instinct of parenthood is confined to one sex. But 
the urge of comfort and custom is strong. Shall he compromise with life? 
Fortunately for the individualist the answer is not difficult. We still have the 
double standard. Society winks at the foibles of the lordly sex. And man 
can still live his own life. 



"We want to get married; at least we love each other, but after what we 
have seen of modern marriage, we can't be sure of anything. Therefore 
we don't want children for a year or so." 

-=•€{ 9 )§*•- 




That is the modern generation's attitude. What we have seen of mar- 
riage has made us unwilling and a little afraid to assume its responsibilities. 
But since we want, we will ; and we will change things to suit ourselves. 

We want a system whereby we can have a trial marriage — to test our 
''undying affection" and to avoid unwanted children and divorces. Why 
should we wait for the pleasures of marriage until the time when we assume 
its responsibilities? Marriage is not life complete and yet life is not com- 
plete without it. We want a union in happiness which will develop into a 
marriage in healthy comradeship. 

Failure means divorce, and perhaps children to be disposed of. While 
divorce is no longer a black stain on a lily white life, still we would rather 
avoid it by legalizing what is now termed immorality. Why should a few 
consecrated words make so much difference? We do not think this system 
would promote promiscuity but rather would it develop a sense of responsi- 
bility not forced on us by convention. 

"But still, we don't want children just yet and we don't want them to 
think that they were accidents. After all they don't ask to be put here, and 
we want to do our best to get them here at the psychological moment for 
them." Here we find a flaw in the statutes of our noble country. Why 
shouldn't we be allowed to learn about birth control scientifically? We 
have all gathered bits of information from bull sessions, but they are gen- 
erally inaccurate. Wouldn't it be better if we could learn from competent 

What we resent most of all is the smugness of the former generations. 
No wonder the thought of marriage depresses us. We are constantly re- 
minded of its responsibility, and what young person contemplating the 
great step has not heard "Look before you leap, my dear, you will regret it." 
But marriage is a habit and by 1935 all this gin, joke, and jazz generation 
will probably be fatally entangled. In the meantime— we are looking for 
a safe spot to leap on. 

The great mass of mankind today finds marriage quite as sufficient or as 
insufficient as it has always been. Its interest is mainly directed to the physical 
and the economic. The husband works for the family livelihood ; the wife 
cleans, cooks, and cares for the children. The concern is to provide enough 
to support the mates and progeny. The physical is not attuned to anything 
aesthetic, and physical mating is, therefore, easy. As there is little mental 

<{ 10^-- 

life, there is little intellectual or nervous friction. Quarrels are over primi 
tive matters: jealousy, coolness, means, expenditures. 

Among the intellectualists who are, by the way, the only ones who are 
ever concerned with the so-called problem of marriage) the problem is 
more complex. Physical mating between two intellectualists — ipso facto, 
individualists — is a most difficult affair. In the first place, it is quite self 
conscious by both parties. Due to the widespread knowledge today of the 
elements of psychology and sociology among modern young women none 
of the more primitive attacks of the male are possible. The union is con- 
templated and instigated mutually. This condition among so large a portion 
of the population is unusual and difficult, and it will probably continue to 
be so for another generation. The physical, already hampered by neglect 
in our ascetic order of society, must now find exact mutuality in order not 
to be entirely eclipsed as being any more than a function of child production. 

The intellectual male will usually be attracted by his counterpart in the 
opposite sex. The struggle for mastery now becomes mute ( neither side can 
afford to be obvious if the union is to live). Nerves come into play. The 
wife is no longer willing to confine herself to the home, seeking an expan- 
sion of experiences in the formerly male world. The tie of the home is 
thus made insecure as it cannot hold the male, being the handiwork not of 
his mate but of an inferior order of person. With the assuming of exacting 
duties in the world outside the home the wife necessarily must reduce to a 
minimum the disabilities of child bearing and rearing. Furthermore, be- 
sides her natural inability to do so she must attend her duties regularly. This 
at the expense of health, beauty, and charm: three vital holds on the male. 

No panacea is to be found. There are three possibilities for the future. 
There may be a return to the clinging vine type, a reaction from the freedom 
to which thus far women have not attuned themselves. There may be a 
continuance of the uncertain status quo. And finally and most desirable, the 
utter and absolute independence, economic and moral, of women may be 
achieved. In that case marriage and divorce are bound to become subject 
only to the conditions of mutual consent. Permanency will be sacrificed to 
happiness. Mastery and dependence will be sacrificed to mutual self-suffi- 
ciency; and the coming of children, as yet normally accidental, will be exact- 
ly controlled. The trend is this way. The end should be furthered by all 
those who are interested in a permanent solution of the marriage problem 
if only for the sake of the experiment. 



-4 1 1 & 



For one type of person marriage is an idea unfit for consideration — that 
is the utterly selfish type. As far as I can see, I fall into that class. This 
is not an admission of culpability, but an assertion of independence. To 
many the idea of a selfish individual, living only for his own interests and 
own pleasure, is an abhorrent one. They consider him a menace, a disgusting 
egomaniac to be shunned and avoided. God knows why this should be the 
case. The selfish person is an extremely fortunate mortal. He is sufficient 
to himself. Others depend too much on outside influences and associations. 
If they chance to be in a city where they have no friends they are miserable ; 
if they feel that no one "understands" them they become morose and 
moody; if they are unable to find their particular little niche in life they 
have nothing to fall back upon. The selfish person demands nothing of the 
outside world. He can take it or leave it alone. Friends are all right, but 
far from indispensable; events are important only as they affect him. He 
lives in a one-man world of his own — and he is satisfied. 

What has marriage to offer a person of this nature: Nothing but an 
undesirable series of setbacks calculated to disrupt his whole scheme of life. 
First there is the question of fair exchange. He gives the woman support, 
food, lodging, money; she gives him sexual gratification and the dubious 
blessing of companionship. The latter gift he can easily do without — in 
fact prefers to do without. In his mind the former gift scarcely balances the 
duties to which he is bound. It can be obtained unhampered by the onerous 
red tape of matrimony. 

A selfish person usually refuses to commit himself to any definite line 
of action. He wishes to feel free at all times to do as he sees fit and not 
as others who have some hold upon him require him to do. His life is an 
all-important matter which he chooses to direct in a manner unrelated to 
compulsion. Marriage places double bonds upon a man — the bond of the 
wife and the bond of the bystander. In the ceremony he has made certain 
promises which he must meet to the best of his ability. He has accepted a 
responsibility calling for a prescribed course of action. Technically, first 
consideration is due to his wife. He is unable to come and go, to talk and 
think without weighing the effect it may have upon his mate. His time is 
hers, his money is hers, his life is hers. If he diverges from duty the wife 
revolts and he is plunged into the noisome mess of a divorce. The bystander, 
the great Everybody Else, is also tremendously exacting. If a married man 
is guilty of the least infidelity the bystander points a scornful and censurious 
finger. His bond is a bond of fear- — fear of talk and a blasted reputation. 


The selfish man is changeable — he is a person of sudden likes and The 

equally sudden dislikes. There is little stability to his emotions. He sees CAROLINA 
something which gives him a temporary desire for possession, something MAGAZINE 
to give him pleasure — selfish pleasure, if you will. He gets it, tires of it 
and looks elsewhere for amusement. Marriage places the quietus upon this , <> , i<j- 

phase of his nature. In one great respect he is no longer free to choose and 
discard. He has taken a wife, and with her has taken a burden of a per- March 

manent character. He must face the inevitable — the inevitable face across 7927 

the table, the inevitable remarks and posturings. He has taken a wife, and 
the bystander will see to it that he keeps her. 

As a final example of a selfish man's reasons for remaining single is the 
problem of intimacy. Living in a compact, pleasant world of his own he 
resents intrusion. His life, both physical and mental, is essentially of a 
private nature. He allows no one to break in upon it and throw it into 
disorder. Social contact is desirable to a certain extent, but actual intimacy 
is verboten. Consider the effect of marriage — that most intimate of institu- 
tions. A wife demanding a place in his work, in his thoughts; a wife sharing 
the closest secrets of his existence; a wife present and palpable at all times. 

A selfish man needs nothing outside of his personal sphere — and asks 
for nothing. Least of all does he need the saddle of matrimony on his back. 

It would be well, before condemning the custom or institution of mar- 
riage, to consider the possibility of there being a better one which could be 
made to take its place. And before any theoretical arguments can be ad- 
vanced, some facts that are undeniable should be considered. 

Records shows that one out of every eight marriages in the United 
States has its finale in the divorce courts. It is appalling, yet it is true. And 

(Continued on page 29) 

By Herbert Drennon 

Some dreams are lacy bridal veils, 
Trailing in an April breeze; 

And some are simply old wives' tale 
Stifled in a sneeze! 

-h6( 13)8h- 

Translations From the Cjerman 

By Ruth Wind 

The Cone of Paper 
By Otto Erich Hartleben 
Of his cap, erect and peaked 
symbol of sublimest folly, 
was Pierrot robbed in the uproar 
of his wedding-night carousal. 

Wailing, all the guests are seeking 
under tables, cupboards, benches, 
for his cap, erect and peaked, 
symbol of sublimest folly. 

But Pierrot, in self-absorption, 
sits at table, turning slowly, 
earnestly, a cone of paper 
from the beautiful new license . . . 
See: the cap erect and peaked. 

The Ba?id of Roses 
By Friedrich Gottlieb Klopstock 
In shade of spring I found my love, 
I bound my love with bands of roses ; 
She felt it not and slumbered still. 

I looked at her; my Being clung, 
In that one glance, unto her Being: 
I felt it keen and knew it not. 

I whispered to her wordlessly 

And rustled soft the bands of roses: 

Till she awakened from her sleep. 

She looked at me: her Being clung 
In that one glance, unto my Being, 
And round us was Elysium. 

-«8( 14^-- 

The Prayer: From the P hop het Jonah 
By Otto Erich Hartleben 

From the depths I called to Thee, Oh, Lord, 
and Thou in thy greatness heardst my calling. 
All thy floods had compassed me about and 
all thy billows and thy waves passed over 
me — until I could but think that never 
would I look again unto thy holy 
temple, for eternity would I be 
shut out from thy mercy. All thy waters 
crowded hard upon my life, the depths now 
rose about my head, reeds flowed around me. 
Down I sank unto the mountains' bases 
and the earth had put her bars about me. 

But hast Thou, oh, Lord my God, yet drawn me 

up again from out this desolation, 

for Thou hast compassion, grace and mercy. 

When my soul had fully despaired within me, 
thought I of God and sent my prayer 
up to Thee, within thy holy temple. 
Those who are despaired before thine anger, 
those who let themselves be slaved by sorrow, 
they alone have forfeited thy mercy 

By Otto Erich Hartleben 

The orchards nod their heavy blossom-load 
and songs of maidens echo down the road. 




The darkened hills are crowned with glowing shape: 
in evening twilight gleam the early grapes. 

I stare a-daze and seared, my mind astray, 
I am so weary, since you went away. 

■-4 15)*- 



By Jacques Le Clercq 

Ransacking that old room, I found 
Crass odds and ends littered around: 

Dank letters, matted wisps of hair, 
Truculently arid there, 

A faded yellow velvet bonnet, 
Exhausted by long sunsj glazed on it 

Two grease-stains where twin ribbons droop, 
Tokens of ill-conducted soup, 

Faces on mildewed photographs, 
Stony and square as epitaphs, 

A grotesque corset, a vast cage 
To hold shoes colorless for age, 

A book — De Kok — with tattered cover, 
Offering (Page 9) a scabrous lover 

Ogling Page 10. I thought: For sure, 
That might be my caricature! 

I must have gazed at you just so, 
When I loved you eight years ago! 

I cleared my throat. I lit a match, 
Poured kerosene, so all would catch, 

And watched the house, without a sound, 
Burn like a bonfire to the ground, 

Till only when the cinders thinned 
Into grey dust above the wind, 

I smoked a cigarette and grinned. 

-4 1 6 }§*.- 



By Byron White 

i, Felipe, you dam' wop, what in the Hell were you out in that palm 
rest for last night? You'er a goddam' fool ! Don't ch' know those 
man-eating natives will get you?" 

"Yea, you'er right, Freddy. I am a fool to go outside the safety lines 
at night. But there is something so damned beautiful about the glow of the 
sun as it goes over Le Petit Monton that it gets me, queer like, on the 
insides. But you'er right. I am a loose bolt to be taking such chances." 

"Well, for God's sake, don't go sneaking off tonight. The Old Man has 
given us orders to shoot to kill anything outside the safety lines that even 
sniffs like a man. His boy told him this morning that that bastard witch 
has told the tribe that a white man has gotta' be sacrificed to drive off the 
plague. And they'er going to do it tonight." 

"All right, I won't take a walk tonight." 

"Boy, don't. If you should cash it where in the Hell do you think I 
would end up at? We've been buddies ever since we left the states. Another 
year of this without a pal would just about make me pop myself off. Just 
thought I'd mention that man-eating dance they'er pulling off tonight. I've 
got the 'Witch's Rump' until eight. See you about nine. So long." 

"So long, Freddy." 

Frederic Holdan, twenty year old runaway, facing the first tropical 
danger of his enlistment, shouldered his gun and tramped heavily up the 
palm covered hill to the final outpost. Formerly a Voodoo priestess had 
lived on its summit, hence the appellation, "Witch's Rump", given it by 
the marines. 

"What 'ch say, 'Red'? Anything stirring?" 

"Nope, everything is blinky. But just wait. In about two hours those 
dam' drums will start. God, such chills the racket will send up your back- 
bone! The noise will be kept up all night. But the dance won't begin until 
they've eaten the sacrifice." 

"How did 'ch get to know so much?" 






"Oh, I saw one of the dances a couple er years ago." 

"Did the heathens eat anyone?" 

"Nope, there wasn't no plague then. They was just dancing a dance in 
order to get a woman. The one tonight will be like it. But, instead of 
making goat soup, they'll make marine." 

"Not if I can help it, by God." 

"Well, if they don't get one of us, they'll use one of the natives. Say, 
Boy, I got a crap game on tonight. You and the dago come on down." 


"Well, watch out for the butchers. Don't let 'em use you for soup bone." 

"Don't let 'em use you for soup bone," the joking, half-serious warning 
kept ringing in his ears. The Mondangues, last cannibal tribe in Haiti, were 
crafty. His post was the farthest from the camp. Thick underbrush, under- 
neath canopy-like palm trees, could serve as an almost inpenetrable cover 
for a black stalker. When it was a question of torrid woodlore a marine 
could not compete with an indigenous black man. 

Holdan paced up and down the twenty yards of beaten track with eyes 
and ears straining. Back and forth, back and forth, with his steps forcing a 
guttural "squash, squash" from the black mud of the patrol path. 

His thoughts were on Felipe. Felipe, the only true pal he had ever 
possessed. Felip, an East Side dago, the paradox, the only man in the regi- 
ment who owned a violin. The only marine that Frederic had ever known 
to read poetry and who sometimes wrote something that he called "free 
verse." Felipe, an odd fellow, who uttered ejaculations about the Haitian 
sunset and who declared that the native music had a mystic quality of its 
own. And yet he was a regular guy, clean and straight and sympathetic. 
Frederic loved him! Without Felipe's steadying, unmentioned strength 
Holdan would have long ago quaffed the forgetful and delightful dregs 
so generously proffered by Haiti. 

But he must be more wary. Surely the sunset was a composition of 
celestial colors. Even the mellow o-n-e — t-w-o — t-h-r-e-e — f-o-u-r of the 
tambours and the ventriloquial syncopation of the calabashes filled with 
pebbles, the weird piping of homemade flutes, and the caressing chorus of 
the women sometimes filled Holdan with wonder. Felipe, the fool, how- 
ever, must be more careful! Meticulous safety measures should be observed 
at the present time. The blacks were mad with rebellious hatred for the 
Americans and fear of the yellow fever plague. 

-Hg( 1 8 }§*•- 

O-n-e — t-w-o — t-h-r-e-e — f-o-u-r! Incessant repetition of the muffled, 
omniprevalent o-n-e — t-w-o — t-h-r-e-e — f-o-u-r with an emphatic, sub- 
terranean bass undertone on the fourth beat. The ghastly rhythmic prologue 
of the demonolatrous dance had begun. An 120 minutes had gone from 
Holdan's four hour stretch. His gun was unbearably heavy. The seeping 
heat made his clothes stick to perspiring skin. "Don't let 'em use you for 
soup bone .... And shoot to kill," the jest of "Red" and the orders of 
the commander kept up a phonograph-like mumble in his head. Holdan's 
finger gripped, convulsively, the cold trigger of his Springfield. At three 
thousand yards a bullet could pierce a mess knife. "Squash, squash" up 
and down, back and back again, "squash, squash" Holdan mechanically 
marched his beat. With wide pupils and painful eye sockets he searched 
out the neighboring valley, the hillside of Le Petit Monton, the surrounding- 
thicket of kola trees splashed here and there with red hibiscus. Palm 
fronds quivering, in the lowering dusk gave his entrails a sickly feeling. 
No, by God, no! as long as he commanded "Witch's Rump" the blood- 
hungry natives would not get him for a soup bone. 

(Continued on fage 3 8) 





By Nannie Herndon Rice 

Now when the earth grows young again she is no more. 

The scent of blossoming plum borne on the fragrant air 

From every hill is not for her; and not for her 

The wind runs happy waves in laughing clover beds, 

Joying to have its way with new and luscious things. 

Now red-bud brings a flush to winter-beaten hills; 

The sun gives halo to the bud-encrusted elm; 

The willows turn to gold beside the swelling streams; 

And daffodils are tremulous with ecstasy. 

For her comes not the Spring; for her no veils withhold: 

She is at peace with loveliness and pain. 

-4 19 }§••-- 



A Study in Pragmatism 
By Herbert Drennon 

Philosophers may addle their wits 

To find the AH in One, the One in AH ; 

Jargonize the universe to bits, 
Stalking the metaphysical. 

They may prove that Time is, or is not, 
And that Space is a categorical notion, 

Dame Truth a hybrid polyglot, 
And Love a Freudian emotion. 

But I shall wind my watch at nights, 

Each morning race to catch the street cars, 

Vote for democratic rights, 

And smoke Republican cigars! 

Cool Lady 
By Jacques Le Clercq 

Not heartsblood tinges 
Her lips to crimson — 
Her heart is frozen: 
That are her breasts. 
Therefore these seracs 

h|( 20 ►- 

The Bull's Head Bookshop 

By Howard Mum ford Jones 

ruE South, in general, does not buy books. 
The percentage of booksales is so low in 
certain southern states that many publishers 
do not push their books in those states. North 
Carolina is a little better than the average, but its 
showing is not good. Certain specific illustrations 
will make the situation clear. 

For instance, the Letters of Walter Hines 
Page. North Carolina sees in Mr. Page a dis- 
tinguished son. During his life he was a brilliant 

C With only one real book- 
store within a radius of sixty 
mites, tlie opening of the 
Bull's Head Bookshop, a 
semi-official plan to interest 
the students in reading and 
buying good books, is likely 
to prove a boon to lovers of 
literature. The few facts 
which Mr. Jones presents in 
this article should do much 
to shatter the complacency of 
the hardy Tar Heel booster 
who points with pride to 

Chapel Hill, as the center of editor, a forward-looking statesman, an adroit 
culture in this state. Collier diplomat, and an able writer. He crowned his 

Lobb has said that there was 

but one bookstore in North career, as it were posthumously, in the publication 
Carohna. The Bull's Head f two volumes of letters which have sold by the 

may become the second. ., 1 £ ■ J i ■ i r i 

thousands or copies, and which are one or the 
most discussed publications having to do with America and the World War. 
In North Carolina, the state of his birth and the center of his interest, it is 
said the records show that less than one hundred copies of the Letters have 
been sold. 

The book business is not a going concern in the state. There are few 
intelligent bookbuyers, for one thing, and for another, the business does 
not pay. The results are sometimes a bit odd. The Modern Library series 
sells all over the United States. So does Everyman's Library. Recently 
I went into a large, and apparently prosperous, book and stationery store 
in the capitol of the state to inquire for a volume in the Modern Library 
publications. The proprietor looked at me blankly and said he had never 

■€{21 }§*••- 

The heard of the books. I tried him on Everyman's. Blankness. I tried another, 

CAROLINA smaller store. Same results. A third. The experience was repeated. 
MAGAZINE ^ we bring the situation nearer home, it is interesting to note that the 

only store in Chapel Hill which made any pretense of handling general 
..«>,»,<>.. books, has abandoned the idea because it was unprofitable. On the other 

hand a drugstore sold in three months, on a monthly average, 150 copies 
March °^ ^he Saturday Evening Post, 50 copies of True Story Magazine, 40 

7927 copies of The Cosmopolitan, 38 copies of The Red Book. During the same 

period the store sold exactly two copies of The Atlantic Monthly, two of 
The Forum, five of Harper's Magazine, and nine of The American Mer- 
cury. No store in the town carries copies of any journal of opinion, such as 
The Nation, The New Republic, or The Saturday Review. 

These are discouraging facts. Fortunately they are offset by certain 
others. Mr. Hibbard noted in a recent number of The Publishers Weekly 
a slow rise in booksales and bookstores in the South, an increase to which, 
I suspect, his weekly Literary Lantern has contributed. Good book reviews 
appear in The Raleigh News and Observer. The library circulation of the 
state is increasing. Dr. Poteat's "Can A Man Be A Christian Today?" has 
gone into a second edition. The University Library is unable to meet the 
demand for current fiction, and generally speaking, their volumes exhibit 
a lively circulation.* 

A book-dealer in Durham says that he has an excellent sale, relatively 
speaking, to customers from Chapel Hill. Book reviews in The Carolina 
Magazine are ably written. These are significant straws. 

I believe that the reading of good books induces the buying of books, and 
that the owning of books is part of one's general education. There has been 
until recently no opportunity for the book-lover to buy books in Chapel Hill 
if he wanted to. The opening of The Bull's Head Bookshop is an attempt 
to meet such demand as there is, and to create an increasing demand, for 
books which are not textbooks. 

Certain facts about The Bull's Head Bookshop should be made clear. 
It is not a private venture. Nobody is to make any money out of it. Such 
profits as may appear (if there ever are any) will go promptly back into 
the business. It is backed by the Book Exchange as a part of the general 
program of the University, and it can, if necessary, afford to lose money 
for a time. Nobody connected with it gets any salary, and the service is 

*The total circulation of books in 1922-23 was 7 Ml*; in 1925-2G. 144,511, an increase of 95%. In 
1900-7 the average student used 11 liluarj books a year. In 1925-20 lie used 59. That is to say, he 
is reading live times as many library bunks as lie did twenty years ago. 

-■*( 22 jfc- 

The spirit of The Bull's Head Bookshop is not intended to he of the 
bargain-counter kind. The Book Exchange is, and has to be, run that way. 
What is needed is a quieter place where leisure reigns, and where the casual 
reader, or the timid, can come in and look over the stock as long as he wants 
to, and read as much of it as he wishes. 

Two objections are urged against the present location of The Bull's 
Head Bookshop, which is in Murphy 214. One is that the place is not in 
the main line of traffic, and the other is that it is in a professor's office and 
that students don't care to go back into a class room or an office after hours. 
Both of these objections have weight. But as it is impossible to rent a room 
(since the shop is not commercial), the store had to be put somewhere, and 
a survey of the campus seemed to show that Murphy was as good a place 
as any other. As for the second objection, as rapidly as may be, it is 
planned to redecorate the office in order to take the curse of the academic 
off it; to install comfortable chairs, places to put cigarettes, curtains to shut 
out the sun, and other doodabs and addenda. 




To those intensely Nordic searchers for the American folk-material who 
resent so bitterly the naive claim of the negro writers, we wquld like to 
suggest a form of theater art which is being over-looked consistently. It is 
the American sex play, or sex picture. America is talking, reading, and 
harkening to the call of — sex. Characteristically, she thinks that she is 
blazing a trail in the underbrush of sociology and morals, but after she has 
steeped herself in sex for twenty years more she will have only reached 
a point long ago passed by the rest of the world. 

It is not correct to assume that the sex play in itself is American in 
origin, but the American sex plays and stories, with their typical develop- 
ment and ending and with their monetary and box-office angles are the only 
distinctive bits of folk-lore we seem to be able to produce. And a cursory 
glance at a week's bill at the Pickwick bears this out. 

The six pictures presented in one certain week bore the following titles: 
"Don't Tell the Wife," "The Popular Sin," "For Wives Only," "The 
Waning Sex," "A Kiss In a Taxi," and "Getting Gertie's Garter." 

■■<{ 23 fc~ 




The Magazine is always interested in record smashing whether it be 
physical, mental or Victrola. And now that the church has entered the 
arena of the modern struggle for publicity we would like to call atention 
to the girl, who, as a member of the Presbyterian Sunday School, attended 
this institution for fourteen years without missing a single Sunday. 

As a reward for this extraordinary exhibition of personal valor and 
self-sacrifice, the young girl was given a pin with fourteen bars appended 
to it. This triple-plated paragon of religiosity was really human, however. 
She was shipped from N. C. C. W. in her Freshman year for stealing. 
The Magazine hesitates to blame this on Evolution, but we seriously 
think that some movement should be started to abolish Sunday Schools. 

During one of the recent campus conflagrations a certain lady in distress 
called upon one of the students for aid in rescuing her mother's picture 
from the flames. This chivalrous Southern gentleman dashed into the 
burning house, discovered the lady's room, and rushed back to her, holding 
a large picture tenderly in his arms. A warm glow of self-satisfaction filled 
his heart as he thought of the joy he was bringing to a loving daughter. 

"My mother!" cried the waiting woman as she seized the picture from 
his outstretched hands. Reverently, she turned it over to look once more 
upon her mother's portrait — saved so heroically from the flames. But a 
sudden gasp of astonishment came from her lips as she beheld — not her 
mother's picture — but the beautiful, inscrutable face of da Vinci's Mona 

When such an understanding knowledge and infinite appreciation of 
the Fine Arts is so clearly evidenced — who dares to call this particular bit 
of the South a "Sahara of the Beaux Arts? " W. S. 

-<8{ 24 }§*-- 

Dollar Marks 

Lord of Himself. 

' Percy Ma: 

: Century Co 

336 pp. $2. 

This book is destined to become a "best seller"; it contains all the elements calcu- 
lated to boost sales. The characters include an angel mother, a devoted son, a girl 
who has gone the pace but finally sees the mockery of it all, a charming lad with an 
irresistible smile and an eccentric genius with a heart of gold. The pages are liberally 
sprinkled with necking parties, Art, liquor, philanthrophy, wise cracks, sound moral 
teachings, life in high society and sentiment — sentiment in a lacrimose, Richardsonian 
flood. Give an author such an array of characters and such a comprehensive melange 
of events, and it's hard to keep him out of extra editions. This is especially true of 
an author who makes no attempt at depth and handles his story with simplicity of 
diction — one might almost say paucity of diction. Mr. Marks is such an author. 

Lord of Himself is a sequel to The Plastic Age and carries on the story of Carl 
Peters, a vulgarian anxious to shed his vulgarity. Though my recollection of The 
Plastic Age is vague I am sure that the present volume is a vastly inferior piece of 
work. Most sequels are shoddy things — striving as they do to cash in again on the 
success of a previous book. Lord of Himself brings Carl to the age of twenty-seven 
and sees him safely engaged to Cynthia Day, the ex-sweetheart of his ex-college 
chum. The interim is filled with a series of efforts on his part to make a gentleman 
ol himself and a series of efforts on the part of the author to make Carl a creature 
of nobility and pathos. Neither is particularly successful. 

The book is draped in a blanket of sentimentalism; at times it is almost mawkish. 
Carl's mother is too good, too perfect. She is a sweet, unassuming person and every- 
one from servants to society matrons fall desperately in love with her at first sight. 
Evidently feeling that she was too good to live, Mr. Marks kills her toward the end 
of the book amid appropriate lamentations. While alive she spends her time lecturing 
Carl on his various blunders and the dear boy is dutifully repentant and ashamed. 
These frequent and lengthy perorations delivered to a man of twenty-five on such 
subjects as snobbery and race prejudice are extremely funny. Loshakoff, the Jewish 
pianist, is inhuman enough when in a state of crudity, but when the author daubs 
him with sentimental veneer he becomes doubly so. No opportunity is lost to make 
an appeal to the genteel emotions. Consider the scene where Carl romps about with 
the puppy and the little child — meanwhile forcing fifty dollar raises upon an unwill- 

-4 25 J§h- 



ing housekeeper. Mr. Marks writes with a tear in one eye and a dollar mark in the 

Carl himself has the makings of an excellent character, but his "common streak" 
psychosis is overworked. The idea of a young man with high class possibilities 
struggling against low class heredity is a powerful one. However, when the young 
man endlessly repeats his performance, undergoes numerous browbeatings and 
informs all his castigators that they are "damned white," one loses sympathy for 
him. Taken as a whole the book has little to recommend it beyond the foregone 
conclusion that it should become immensely popular. 

R. K. Fowler 

The Hor^n-rim Age 

A Sorbonne of THE Hinterland. Jacques LeClercq. New York: The Dial 
Press, 1926. 
LeClerq has done it. "A Sorbonne of the Hinterland," brief as it is, carries a 
tremendous wallop. Here is an authentic interpretation of the American university 
seen across the temperament of a poet at once satirical and lyric. Leonard Bacon in 
"Ph.D.'s" attempted only the graduate school. LeClerq puts in everybody — flapper, 
pedant, teacher, trustee, undergrad. And in his several poems he pinks his man 
with neatness and despatch. He has Drvden's gift for the excoriating phrase, 
ami a nervous energy of his own. His rhythms are sure. He does not overwrite. 

Sometimes, it is true, he strains for his effect. The following couplet on a 
behaviorist is neither true to the type nor clever: 

He preached the ethical in life, 
But slept with anybodv's wife. 
Compare with it the shrewd insight of "Average Student:" 
Making for better or for worse 
This university your universe, 
In high, immaculate orthodoxy 
You are leading life — by proxy. 
The method of the quatrain is identical with the method of the couplet above, 
but the quatrain is successful because it swiftly sketches a genus, and because the 
anti- climax reveals a fundamental weakness in "average student's" philosophy of 
living. Howard Mumford Jones ' 

A First Novel 

run. By Ramon Guthrie. Doran Co. New York: 260 pp. $2.50. 
on Guthrie, who holds a degree from the University of Toulouse, h 
ast three years a professor at the University of Arizona. He is now i 

~«S( 26 ]3*- 

, been 

in France where he will devote himself exclusivel) to writing. I Ins is Ins first 
published novel, though his third in point of composition. The others should appear 

There are three types of historical novels: first, that devised by Walter Scott 
in which there is minute local color, often fatiguing to the general reader; second, 
the type for the invention of which BlaSCO Ibafiez demands great credit, where. in a 
strictly modern setting one character narrates to another the history; third, that in 
which language and psychology employed are those of the modern reader with an 
historical background sparingly introduced. Mr. Guthrie has chosen the third type 
and the result is a story which can interest even the unhistorically minded reader. 

Starting with the brief thirteenth century biography of the troubadour Marcabrun, 
which tells us merely that he was a foundling, a pupil of Ccrcamon, and a professed 
hater of women, the author has woven a delightful story of his life, centering 
it around Eleanor of Aquitaine and her father William X. The style is vivid, some- 
what Voltairian, save for an occasional rare word or an inept metaphor. Several 
passages achieve a rare beauty, notably that which describes the departure of William 
on his last pilgrimage to Campostella. Not least among the beauties of the book are 
the interspersed lyrics. Some Mr. Guthrie has translated from the original; a few 
are doubtless of his own composition. 

Falling, rising, twisty-twirled, 

Like a storkling in the air, 

Up and down the wobbly world 

Flutters on — nor much I care. 
Such is the philosophy of Marcabrun. 

Urban T. Holmes 




Celluloid Philosopher 

Shoot. By Luigi Pirandello. New York. E. P. Dutton & Co. 376 pp. $2.50. 

The books of the story appear to be the objective record jotted down by Serafino 
Gubbio, a cinematograph operator in the employ of the Kosmography Company. 
Therein are chronicled the adventures of Nesteroff, a strange Russian woman who 
had learned the art of entertaining in the cheap show places of Germany where her 
father and mother had fled as exiles. Aldo Nuti tried to save a young kinsman from 
her charm ; the young man was so shocked by the slanders which Nuti laid bare that he 
committed suicide; Nuti then found that the spell of the woman was powerful 
enough to send him after her into the employ of the Kosmograph Company, where 
Nestoroff was one of the principal cine actresses. 

Gubbio, or "Shoot," as he was called, watched Nesteroff as she skillfully made 
rivals of the coarse and fiery actor, Carlo Ferro, and the more sensitive Nuti. In the 
course of a picture that was being made it became necessary for one of the actors to 
face a wild tiger. How Nesteroff arranged a plan by which one of the men would 

-4 27 ►- 




face the tiger, and the results of her scheme, as recorded by the whirring camera 
of "Shoot" — these events form the denouement of the story. 

But Signor Pirandello does not proceed rapidly with his tale; the richness of 
emotional suggestion, the significance of events, the cold passionless drive of ma- 
cfnnery, the futility of logic in the presence of impulse — all of these he takes time 
to evoke, until the events he chronicles seem but dreamy patterns in the mirage of 
consciousness. Such a passage as the following illustrates his method: 

"What fools all the people are who declare that life is a mystery, wretches who 
seek to explain by the use of reason what reason is powerless to explain! 

"To set life before one as an object of study is absurd, because life, when set 
before one like that, inevitably loses all its real consistency and becomes an abstraction, 
void of meaning and value .... 

"Life is not explained; it is lived. 

"Reason exists in life; it cannot exist apart from it. And life is not set before 
one, but felt within one and lived. How many of us, emerging from a passion as we 
emerge from a dream ask ourselves: 

" 'I? How can I have been like that? How could I do such a thing?' " 

There are those who like to follow such a technique; they are probably the same 
persons who have read all of Ulysses. It is only fair to say, however, that Shoot is 
written in complete, if somewhat awkwardly translated, sentences. Translators from 
the Italian and Spanish have always had difficulty with the sustained but clear and 
certain periods of those languages. Mr. Montcrief seems to have sacrificed an 
English prose style for an unprofitable literalness. 

James Willis Posey 


-Hg| 28 )§*••- 


(Continued from page 1 \ ) 
this great wave of dissatisfaction can be attributed mainly to a single 
ignorance. Ignorance of scientific methods of regulating and coi 
sexual life. 

On every side one can see the result of this ignorance which is 
precipitate the nation into a social revolution. What couples a 
happy? If outward appearances could be removed by the scalpel of a 
surgeon, one would find that where he formerly saw happiness, there would 
be at best, resignation. But search for happiness — happiness in the sense 
that life has given the heart everything that it desires, and one finds it 

To achieve success in married life one must be educated to the problems 
and the facts one must face throughout this life. And when by educational 
processes the home can be made into a place of welcome and comfort, instead 
of merely a place in which to sleep, one has installed a safety valve on the 
machinery of marriage. 

When both the man and the woman have become educated to the point 
of correct living and correct and scientific sexual relations another danger to 
married happiness will have been taken away. Enlightened sexual life breeds 
healthy and wanted children in proportion to the desires and means of the 
husband and wife, and adds to the pleasure and health of both the man and 
the woman. Incorrect relations tend to breed degenerates, [and* such 
a condition if continued leads to the physical wrecking of the wife, with a 
like effect upon the man. The spiritual wreckage of the home is also 

The third factor causing a happy married life to seem to be a mirage 
is woman, herself. Before marriage she would preen, dress, and entertain 
for the person she wished to win, but after marriage she becomes careless 
in her dress, appearance, and attitude toward her husband. Privacy is not 
respected by either, and the old adage, "familiarity breeds contempt," is 
too true. This fault is also due to ignorance. A woman should be educated 
to the fact that her husband is only her husband so long as she can hold him. 
It is remarkable that so many marriages survive in the face of this indiffer- 
ence following the nuptials by some months. Married life, to be happy, 
must be built on respect — the respect of a man for his wife, and of a woman 
for her husband. When illusions are broken, respect undergoes a severe 

-«$ 29 fa~ 




.use — ■ 



out to 







strain. I would suggest that women look to their grandmothers and great- 
grandmothers for examples of true womanhood. Would they have thought 
of sitting opposite their husbands every morning, partially dressed? I 
doubt it. 

People are constantly saying that the institution of marriage is a mock- 
ery. I have yet to hear any of the people who rant against the marriage 
sham offer any solution that would make marriage a sacred thing instead of 
a mockery. For such a great problem which is at the root of all the world's 
unhappiness there can be but one solution. That solution resolves itself 
into the problem of education. Teach the man correct methods in the 
scientific regulation of his sexual appetites, and educate the woman to the 
fact that married life can be made beautiful if she works hand in hand with 
her mate to make it so. Let us have men and women who enter married life 
with open eyes. Let them know what is expected of them and what they 
are to expect. Let them know what should and is to be respected. 

I sincerely believe that if this educational problem could be carried out 
by competent hands divorce would become the unheard of rather than the 
common incident. 

For an institution which was formerly supposed to have been made in 
Heaven, modern marriage has become marvelously efficient in sending 
people to hot and personal hells. Of course there is nothing wrong with 
marriage as an institution. But people and conditions have changed, and 
realizing this we should face the matter sanely, wrap up our custom of 
matrimony in soft cotton and lay it away where it can no longer hopelessly 
entangle happily mated couples in its conventional web. 

Man loves a girl for her real or fancied individuality. He admires her 
as an individual, an admiration which unfortunately becomes more and 
more possessive as the date of marriage approaches. Probably the woman's 
feeling undergoes the same change. I have never been a woman. But 
reaching the climax of this courtship, delayed until after the wedding by 
convention, we have the physical surrender of the woman. 

The sudden denouement after such a climax leaves a tangled mess of 
ideals, standards and affections which few couples ever straighten out com- 
pletely. The man finds that the individual to whom he was married has 
now become his wife. She tacitly accepts the fact. All society proclaims new 
laws of possession and there is hell to pay. Wilde says that man kills the 
thing he loves, but he probably meant that he married her. 

-€{30 }>■- 

I am afraid of the consequences of marriage. I look curiously into the 
faces of married couples of my acquaintance and I find only resignation in 
the great majority of cases. I can remember their interest and respect for 
each other before their marriage. Then came that brief orgy of sex, the 
honeymoon, and they began to react against restraints and edicts forced on 
them by society. If they could adapt themselves, the result was resignation 
and some degree of content. If they were too strongly individual the result 
was intolerance and divorce. 

I am afraid to marry the woman I love in the conventional way. I 
abhor the possessive feeling which would make her a part of the equipment 
of my home. I do not want my marriage to come as the emotional and 
physical climax of our companionship, because a climax presages a waning. 
When we became engaged, it was by mutual agreement. Each of us has 
the right to break it at will, and we do not need the aid of the church or of 
the state to determine the conditions under which this shall be done. And 
were it not for society and convention we should become married in the same 
manner. It would be a healthy union. But it would be a union which could 
not survive the raised eyebrows, the implications of immorality, and the 
protests of outraged families. And we only hope that we will be able to 
survive the union which we shall have forced on us. 

Contract marriage is no new idea. It has been offered as a solution to 
individual problems by Judge Ben Lindsay and others. They have not 
made it obligatory, but they have begged that it shall be made legal for the 
benefit of those who are not anxious to risk their future happiness in the 
bonds of an outworn custom. The contract, as I see it, would be a sort of 
mutual agreement between a man and woman, which can be broken at the 
will of either party , to live together as man and wife. The provision for 
children in case of separation can be made obligatory by legal procedure as 
in any other contract. 

Marriage is rapidly coming to be merely the form by which this state 
attempts to safeguard the interest of children that may be born. God, as an 
interested party, and heaven as a prospective place of blissful abode for the 
loving couple are still sometimes spoken of in ceremonies; but statistics 
which don't lie show that heaven, or hell for that matter, will be stages for 
numerous embarrassing scenes if the ceremonial pronouncements should 
actually be binding. Trial marriages and successive polygamy have long 



-h|( 3 1 $»■- 



had legal recognition. And now the only function of the state is to attempt 
to protect children through the institution of marriage. 

I do not know any other way that would be at all practicable by which 
the state could protect the child. This I consider perfectly justifiable. I 
think that most children are ruined for any sort of desirable living by their 
home influences. But the sentimentality and ignorance of parents, if their 
function as trainers were abolished, would be equaled by the general 
asininity and incompetence of elective or appointive baby training officials. 

My somewhat limited period of observation on this earth has led me 
to the conclusion that we are all fools and idiots of some degree or other. 
I see no way to avoid marriage; the women demand it and the men are not 
always unwilling. The best proof I can cite of what 1 have said in this 
paragraph is that there are mechanistic psychologists and biologists who 
have wives and babies. 

If people were more rational and there could be shown to be any good 
reason for continuing to populate this globe with human beings of any kind, 
then I think there might be some reasons for attempting to create a better 
relationship between parents, children, and state. If I were called on to 
direct such a scheme there are several definite things I would do: 

1 . Birth control would be regulated by the state. Defective babies 
would be chloroformed or put out of misery in some other way. Licenses 
would have to be secured to have babies, and would be issued only to those 
who possessed certain mental and physical qualities. Mental and phvsical 
tests would be perfected and followed without exception in allowing pro- 
creation. In a mild form this is now done in several states, but I would make 
it much more severe. 

2. Children would be cared for in institutions, and parents would not 
be allowed to know their own children or even know the institution in 
which they were kept. 

3. Marriage would be an individual affair, except for the conditions 
concerning children. 

Most of the troubles of modern and ancient societies came from the 
uncontrollable growth of population. I should have little faith in any 
attempt at control, but I certainly see no particular reason why the present 
ways of procreation should be considered worth continuing. I consider the 
control of the procreation and rearing of children far more important than 
such questions as whether or not a man and woman once married should 

4 32 J8>- 

consider themselves bound together until death do them part, with the 
prospect of later eternal union. Such questions as this Latter have already 
been decided in spite of the opinion of many prominent clerics that a man 
should love and cherish his wife whether he does or not. Divorce, thank 
God and Henry VII I, is with us. Absurd laws are still on the statute books, 
but they constitute practically no obstacle and are bound to come off when 
the legislators wake up to what has happened to marriage. 

What do you think of marriage of the present day?" The state of 
marriage is all right but the marriage relations do not meet the demands 
of the present generation. The marriage code of our fore-fathers is 
not suited to the life of today. The much discussed and cussed modern 
generation has witnessed in their own homes the successful or unsuccessful 
attempt of their fathers and mothers to adhere to the archaic rules 
instilled in them by their parents. Today, youth is either unwilling to 
struggle against the call of nature or is disgusted with the rules that create 
an unnatural relation which made their parents live unhappily in marriage. 

The monogamic state of marriage is the only form in which modern 
youth is interested. The girl looks distastefully upon polygamy while the 
boy realizes that he is unable to support more than one wife. 

Life is the endless road of flight from death. No one can reach the end 
but the way is rich in experience. All for which we can hope is to travel as 
much of the road as is possible. Sexual experience begins at the end of the 
senseless period of puberty. What youth, boy or girl, wants to pass the next 
stretch of the road in life without enjoying the "bitter sweet" of the mystery 
of sex difference? Morals of yester-year demand that this part of the road 
be traversed by couples wedded in marriage or else alone, though all of us 
are possessed by natural thirsts that damn us if quenched in chance meetings 
with other lone travelers. 

At the present time, youth has no quarrel with marriage for it has a very 
definite idea of its meaning which is decidedly different from what it has 
been in the past. The past is gone and today, young men and women feel 
that marriage has lost its application to the present and the future. 

The advances that have been made in science, industry, and religion have 
made the world what is is today, and we have a set of social conditions which 
is also completely altered. This change is especially marked in the evolution 
of the feminine world. Education has liberated women from the home as 
the only field of endeavor ; men have given her political and economic 

-■<{ 33 }>■- 




The independence and science has delivered her from the biological necessity 

CAROLINA of bearing children. 

MAGAZINE The econom i c j aesthetic, moral and spiritual conditions of the present 

necessitate late marriages if we are to follow the marital code. Until the 

..•>•»<,.. t ' me °f our grandfathers the marriage code was fitted for the early union 

of men and women and as then, so now, youth wants sexual life at the age 

March °^ Physical maturity and not as the last spent efforts of a declining physical 

1927 and emotional being. 

The marriage as our forebears knew it will not do today. Both boys and 
girls want and require some sort of sexual union at the same turn in the 
road of life as did their fathers and mothers. Their parents met this desire 
with early marriage. Today that is impossible, but youth still wants to live 
in comfort and peace and happiness. Sex life is necessary to each of these 
states of being, but the old marriage relations can not be made to meet this 
changed condition. 

Youth has discovered early marriage to be destructive to its peace, 
comfort and happiness, while at the same time it has found out that the 
so-called immoral sexual companionships in the unmarried state, meet 
admirably the present needs and conditions. Of course youth can often 
suppress its natural desires and wants until the climactic years, but the 
way is hard and often injurious to physical and mental health. And 
although there exists these choices, the modern boy and girl prefer that the 
prefix "im" be struck from the word "immoral" when it refers to an essen- 
tially moral union between the sexes. 


-4 34 ►- 

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ain't know he head from he foots. 
Part er de time he was workin' at de 
windows wid Peter, and den he would 
quit an' run all 'round an' blow he 
horn for help. It look like dey never 
was guh git dem chillun back in de 
mansion. Some er de chillun flewed 
up on de window sill. Dey'd hang dere 
a little while wid dey claws an' flop dey 
wings an' drap back on de groun'. 

Voice: Tad, wey de Lord been? 
Ain't He kin stop all datr 

Tad: He been worryin' so 'bout He 
carpet, he forgit He got other things 
to 'tend to. 

Voice: Wey Ole Sister all dis time, 

Tad: You axe so much question, you 
turn my min' from Ole Sister. Dat 
storm blowed de gates open an' scared 
dat chile of Peter's so bad he run off 
an' Peter ain't find him for a week. 
An' when he is find him he been in a 
ole shed settin' down 'twixt two ole 
angels eatin' spiled manna. He mighty 
nigh loss all he feather. 

Voice: Dat show must er been a 

Tad: It like to mint heaven, an' it 
mighty night mint de carpet, an' it 
spiled so much manna till de Lord had 
to put de angels on short rations. 

Bruser: Wey Ole Sister been all dis 

Tad: Well, she slipped into heaven 
when dat no 'count chile of Peter's lef 
de gate. She creep 'round a while a 
watchin' everything an' everybody. She 
kept quiet for one or two days, but 
she ain't shet she eye an' she mind been 
workin'. She's sneak around an' watch 
de angels an' it ain't been long 'fore a 
man an' ooman angel daresent to set 
on de stairs, or walk in de garden to- 


from fage 6) 

gether. She gee agvice to Peter, she 
worry Mikel an' she had de tall angel 
worried up so till he spend moest er he 
time settin' on de top of a barn by he 
self, an' Gabel say he mind tangled up 
so he mighty night forgit how to blow 
he horn. He say he don't reckon he 
never will git a chune out'n it again, 
an' Peter say de Lord guin him de 
devil 'bout lefen dat gate open. He 
say a storm kin blow heaven in half, 
but he'll never lef de gate no more. 

Voice: Ole Sister! 

Tad: Dat ain't all. Ole Sister had 
de angels, mens an' womens, so 'sturbed 
up dey was feared to go to roost at 
night. Things got so bad an' ole Sister 
got such a start on 'em, — you know dey 
ain't nuse to seein' nothin' like her in 
heaven, — she had Delilah so excited she 
cut off Aaron's beard, and she got so 
worse she started to carryin' tales to de 
Lord on He son. She mighty nigh cre- 
ate a fuss 'twixt 'em. 

Bruser: Dat sounds jes like our ole 
sister. I always is say you can't dodge 
'em. I wonder wha' kind er lookin' 
whings she got. 

Scip: I ain't know. I reckon dey is 
lousy jes like her mind wid ambier 
drippin' off her bill jes like it drip off 
her tongue in dis world. 

Voice: Tad, did dey ever git rid on 
her in heaven? 

Tad: Yes, dey git rid on her. One 
day de Lord an' He son went off on a 
piece of private business, an' took Gabel 
and Mickel wid Him, an' he lef de 
mansion in charge of de tall angel. 
Dey ain't lef good 'fore Ole Sister 
flewed up on de throne an' set herself 
dere to watch. While she was settin' 
dere three or four of dem rough angels 
what Ole Sister been pickin' at sneaked 

-4 36 >h- 

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up behind her an' jerked her off de 
throne. She tried to holler an' flutter, 
hut it ain't no nuse, dey put her in a 
crocus sack an' dragged her to de back 
door of heaven an' th'owed her out 
de door an' down de hill an' de last 
of dat ole sister seen from heaven she 
was rollin' an' bouncin' down de hill 
to hell where she b'long. She been so 

hard she been knockin' sparks out de 

Voice: You reckon de Lord an' He 
son schemed dat er way to git rid on 

Tad: I ain't know. 

Sop: It aint' look like it safe to die 
an' it look like it dang'ous to live. 


(Continued from page 19) 

The blistering sun began to settle over the side of Le Petit Monton. 
Somewhere beyond, deep in the Bornean jungle, naked, oily-skinned blacks 
were boiling, as the only concomitant, Congo beans for the human sacrifice. 
The supreme Voodoo priestess, Mere Marie, — a Mamaloi of the sect — had 
declared that the boiled offering must be "a white goat without horns" — a 
marine. And he, Holdan, a twenty year old adventurer, was the nearest 
sea-fighter. Already, perhaps, sleek, mahogany-shaded Mondangues were 
creeping down Le Petit Monton and through the valley with its deserted 
coffee plantations. "Shoot to kill," that is what he would do, — it was the 
only way to keep from being used as a soup bone for the Congo beans. 
Vistas of untasted life stretched before Holdan! His eyes were fixed rigidly 
upon the side of Le Petit Monton. At the first life movement evident upon 
its declivity he determined to fire. The sun was now hidden behind the 
hill's crest and only gorgeous saffron and yellow and red rays indicated 
its departure. 

"God, there's one of those man-eating apes," Holdan muttered, shaken 
with an ague-like chill. The hot atmosphere became cold in his lungs and 
forced his viscera tightly against the small of his back. He must be still. 
It is necessary when one shoots to kill. 

With exacting pains Holdan aimed his rifle at the half-mile distant 
figure on Le Nu Roc, a huge boulder guarding the flanks of Le Petit 
Monton. A nerveless finger pulled the trigger. 

Down the side of Le Nu Roc, a bullet hole in his jugular vein, tumbled 
the dreamer, the marine, Felipe. 

On his way back to camp and a crap game Holdan was amazed at the 
sudden tropical fierceness of the tambours, the quivering shrillness of the 
flutes, and the horrible, tumultous chant. Both males and females were 
shouting to the gods an African-dialect oblation. The sacrifice, "a white goat 
without horns," would soon satiate the plague deity. 

-h§( 38 }§►- 


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Musical Comedy 



Change of program Monday, 

Wednesday, Friday, Saturday. 

3 Shows Daily — 5 Shows Saturdays 

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General Supplies 

You can always find 
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Book Exchange 

The Writers 

E. C. L. Adams, whose book "Congaree Sketches" will be brought out 
by the University Press this spring, lives in Columbia, S. C. Most of his 
negro sketches are taken down as they are told around the camp fire by his 
negro companions .... Ruth Wind has presented in this group of four 
translations a prayer which is taken from a longer translation on which she 
is now working. She lives in Chapel Hill, and was formerly on the staff of 
the "Playmakers." . . . Herbert Drennon is on the faculty at Vander- 
bilt University. He is one of the younger poets in the rapidly growing 
Southern group .... Nannie Herndon Rice is a member of the faculty 
at the Mississippi A. and M. College. "Elegaic" is her first contribution to 
The Magazine .... Byron White is one of the managing editors of 
The Tar Heel. His first contribution to The Magazine was "Ethics in 
Journalism." . . . Jacques LeClercq's new book, "A Sorbonne of The 
Hinterland" is reviewed in this issue of The Magazine. Mr. LeClercq is 
a member of the faculty at Columbia University. 

-4 40 )§►•- 

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Controlled by the Publications Union 

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L. H. McPherson. Business Manager 

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Woodcut Virginia Lay 



Decent Burial (Story) Lilith Shell 

:: ':< j 


Break. My Blibbles Julia Johnson Davis 



There's Many a Pear Tree White 


With Bloom (Verse) Julia Johnson Davis 



Lucia (Story) W. W. Anderson 


Four Poems • John Richard Moreland 


After Reading Herrick. (Verse) Clinton Scollard 



Sea Breeze (Story) D. Pierson Ricks 



Septoids (Verse) R. K. Fowler 

Lights In The Night (Verse) L. J. Stander 
The Pasture 


Book. Bazaar 



The Writers 


Entered as second-class matter ;it the Postoffice at Chapel Hill, N. C, October 1, 1926 

Manuscripts should be typewritten, double-spaced, and have return address on cover. All 

manuscripts should be addressed to the Editor, The Caiioi.ina Magazine, Box 770, Chapel 

Hill. N. C. 


■'There swept over her ma 
of bitter-sweet memory." 

Woodcut by Virginia La 

— Decent Burial 




T)ecent ^Burial 

By Lilith Shell 

i.d Mahaley Lucas puttered among the ramshackle coops feeding 
her flock of frowsy hens and gangling chickens. It was Sunday 
and she was taking her time. A stringy shawl hung awry over her 
shoulders and her faded dress sagged unevenly about her shapeless shoes. 
The early morning brightness emphasized the sharpness of her thirl old 
nose and chin and brought out strikingly the vivid redness of her tousled 
hair. From under the tangle of red and out of the leathery wrinkles of her 
face her keen black eyes peered like those of a weasel. Behind her from 
under the floor of the cabin there came a scrambling and scuffling followed 
by an uproar of loud-mouthed barking. She turned to see two gaunt hounds 
hurl themselves about the legs of a man carefully letting himself between 
the loose strands of the barbed wire fence which skirted the near by corn- 

"Howdy, Mis' Lucas?" the man greeted her. "John 'round?" 
"He hain't up yit," she answered. She felt suddenly weak and sick. 
Any inquiry for her son these last ten years set up a nervous trembling inside 
her. Time was when the very sound of his name thrilled her with a joy 
which actually hurt. The years covering his babyhood, the swift years of 
his little boyhood when his expressive little face reflected her pride in him, 
the clean white beauty of his slender bare little body under her hands as she 

-4 3 >'~ 




bathed him — those years had been a dream of bliss to Mahaley. She had 
never been married but to her her baby was no child of shame. He had 
been left to her, the sacred pledge of the man who loved her. She had 
been promised to Henry Terrill, but the week before the time set for the 
marriage he had been caught in the harness of a team of panic stricken mules 
and dragged to his death over two miles of stony, stumpy road. When 
Mahaley watched his coffin lowered into the grave she was still unaware of 
the new life awakening within her, but as the weeks went by bringing 
with them the certain knowledge of the truth a sort of frightened exultation 
settled upon the girl and she waited eagerly for the advent of her lover's 

But latterly some evil thing had stolen upon her like a thief in the night 
and before she realized that her boy was out of his childhood had robbed 
her. Two years out of his life — and hers — had been spent in prison. Now 
in his late twenties he was a lawless, shiftless, no-account loafer. No one 
knew this so well as Mahaley but through all the years of bitter disillusion 
she never once failed him ; she once had thought that her love must hold 
him but that hope had long since vanished. 

"Why, was y' wantin' 'im?" she asked of the man at the fence. 

"Well, yes, I was, but I reck'n I c'd tell you," he answered, and choking 
fingers seemed to lay hold upon Mahaley's throat. 

"Liz Allbright," the man went on, "she's got a baby borned this mornin' 
an' ol' Till's raisin' hell." The messenger was unable to meet Mahaley's 
eyes and turned his gaze over to the east as if he were interested in the 
miracle of the sunrise. 

"What's she raisin' hell about?" After a struggle Mahaley got the 
question up from her dry throat. 

"Maybe you better call John," urged the man. 

"No," Mahaley insisted. "W T hat you got to say you ^n say to me." 

"All right, Mis' Lucas, but don't you go an' flare up, now. 01' Till's 
a blamin' this young un onto John an' she lays she's a gonna make it hot fer 
'im, so I jes' dropped by to let 'im know," the man explained with a note of 
apology in his voice. 

"What you been doin' thar?" Mahaley demanded. 

"Ol' Till she sent fer Marthy an' we couldn' refuse 'em in a tight 
thissaway but I wouldn' let Marthy go thar by herse'f so I went along with 
her. She's gone on home now an' I thought I'd let John know the lay o' the 

-4. 4 j§*~ 

"What they a doin' with the baby?" Mahaley asked. 

"It didn' live on'y 'bout an hour. They'll bury it 'round the place thar 
som'ers I reck'n. 'Tain't likely they'd undertake to bury it in the grave 
yard. Marthy said thar wa'nt a rag o' clo'es to put on its back." 

Mahaley picked up her feed pan and without another glance at the 
messenger went into the cabin with the swift intention of asking John for 
a denial of Till's charge. But once inside she hesitated. The sudden tear that 
the charge was very likely true swept over her. If she did not ask him she 
would never know for certain j better uncertainty than the miserable truth — 
if it were true. So she busied herself about the breakfast, lifting the rusty 
stove lids gently so that she might not disturb the man asleep on the bed 
in the corner of the room. She laid the fire and sifted the corn meal for the 
breakfast cakes, refilled the pitcher of molasses and put two plates upon the 
table. One thought kept pushing itself to the front of her mind: it might 
be true. She knew the greater chance was that it was true and that they 
would bury the child about the place somewhere like a dead pig or calf. To 
Mahaley this thought was unbearable; in this child's veins there might be 
her own blood — and Henry Terrill's. 

Mahaley was not reckoned religious by the respectable church-going 
people of the community. She seldom attended any church service and her 
knowledge of the Bible was nil. She could not repeat the Lord's Prayer nor 
the Apostle's Creed; she did not know Adam from Moses and she had 
never heard of the Virgin Birth. But to her the decent burial of the dead 
was a religious rite which no responsible person could neglect with impunity. 
If Liz Allbright's baby was John's then she herself had a responsibility 
about it. After all there was no refuge in uncertainty. But those Allbright 
women! Through the hard years Mahaley had kept herself scrupulously 
free from any association which might be construed as even a semblance of 
evil. This had not always been easy, especially when John was little and she 
was young and alone. But now if she was going to have to come in touch 
with these women for the sake of the baby she would have to do it. She 
turned abruptly from the breakfast preparations and went to the bed. 

"John, John," she called softly, shaking the man gently. 

"What the hell — :" he muttered. 

"John, wake up. I got to ast y' sumpin," she insisted. 

"What y' want?" he demanded sleepily and surlily. 

"Liz Allbright's got a baby, John, an' her mother's savin' it's yorn. It 
hain't so, is it, John?" Her words brought him upright in bed. 



. I -pril 



The "So?" He spat the word from his loose lips like venom. "So? Damn 

CAROLINA her. Me, huh? What ails her? She hain't got nuthin' she c'n prove on me. 
MAGAZINE Let ' er r *P> damned ol' hussy." 

"But John the baby's dead an' they're jes' a gonna bury it 'round the 
place thar somers," Mahaley said. 

"I don't give a damn whar they bury it," answered the man. "It hain't 
none o' my bus'ness." 
1Q27 "But John, if it was yorn " Mahaley insisted. 

"They've got that to prove yit," he said. 

"But John " There was yet the shadow of hope in her voice. 

"Aw, good Goddlemighty, maw, drop it, cain't y'?" he growled, and 
flinging himself out of bed pulled on his clothes and left the cabin. 

Mahaley straightened the tumbled bed, hung up a shapeless garment or 
two and with her foot pushed a pair of muddy shoes out of sight under the 
bed. She cleared away the partially prepared breakfast without having 
tasted anything. Then she climbed the ladder to the loft above the one 
room of the cabin. From an old trunk there she selected a number of 
garments, small and coarse and yellow with age, and descending she spread 
them with infinite tenderness upon the bed whence her son had just risen. 
Then softly closing the door behind her she, too, left the cabin. 

Nothing in Mahaley's life had ever required so much resolution as this 
thing which she was driven against her will to do. Her concern about it was 
an admission of her son's possible guilt and that, in no case, had she ever 
admitted to anyone save herself. Always Till Allbright's name had been 
anathema to her. Once when she was passing through the valley of the 
shadow of public scorn Till, then a brazen young woman, had come to see 
her, presuming upon a certain comradeship between them, but she had never 
tried it a second time. But now she, Mahaley, must go to Till's place, a 
thing she had always shunned like a pest house. She groaned aloud in an 
agony of uncertainty. If only she could be sure it was not John's child — 
but it might be. There was no escape. 

Passing the door of a shed she drew out a large shovel then gathering 
her skirts tightly about her thin old legs she slipped through the barbed 
wire fence and struck off between the corn rows in the direction whence the 
messenger of the earlier morning had come, dragging the shovel behind 
her. She stumbled over clods and sticks and stones, thrusting aside the 
sharp edged corn leaves from her face with her free hand and with vigorous 
jerks freeing her feet from the tangle of weeds and morning glory vines. 

-°<{ 6 }§*- 

upon a cabin much like her < 
■x pen tossing nubbins to thn 

At the edge of the cornfield she cam< 
it a man lounged upon the rails of 
Jean shoats, 

"NoeVj" Mahaley said as she came up to him, "I want you sh'd dig a 
baby grave fer me. Dig it in the graveyard right alongside Henry Ten-ill's 
an' git it done by ha'f pas' ten. Here's my shovel fer y' to use an' maybe 
y' c'd git some un t' he'p y\" and before the man could question or protest 
she was gone, leaving the shove] in his loose grasp. 

Till Allbright stood in her door as Mahaley came up. She was haggard 
and disheveled for the night had been a hard one. The sight of Mahaley 
approaching sent her into a rage and she let loose a stream of searing, 
scorching words — words which burned into Mahaley's very soul but she- 
came straight on. She could not hesitate now. The child must be decently 
buried. At least she must make an effort to see that it was done. 

"Whar's the baby?" she faltered when the other woman paused for 

"Onto that bench thar back o' the table," Till answered, turning into 
the hut before Mahaley. "Layin' thar stiff and cold and stark nekked an' 
my pore gal a sufferin' death." At this Mahaley heard a stifled moan from 
the filthy bed in the corner but she did not turn her eyes in that direction. 

"What you gonna do with the babyr" she asked, a faint hope still linger- 
ing within her that Till might have some idea of a burial that would release 
her from her responsibility. 

"Bury it 'round here somers soon's I c'n git me a bite t' eat," Till 
informed her. "I hain't figgerin' t' have any swell fun'ral fer any o' my 
dead. Much 'bliged t' y' fer callin' in," she ended sarcastically. 

"I come t' git it," Mahaley said without looking at the other woman. 

"Take it an' welcome. 'Tain't nuthin' more'n yore dooty, nohow. V ort 
t' take some intrust in it," but something dulled the insolence which Till 
intended her words to carry. Whatever she had 'laid up' for John Lucas 
there was no point to be made in saying it to his tight-lipped mother. It 
was good enough luck to have the dead child taken off her hands. 

Mahaley slipped the little form from under the rags which covered it, 
wrapped her apron around it and hurried away from the squalid place. 
Avoiding the cabin of the man whom she had commanded to dig the grave 
she entered the corn field lower down and stumbled back to her own cabin 
with her pitiful burden. 

(Continued on Page 32) 

-4 7 fc- 



rhe Break My Bubbles 



Break my bubbles, let them burst, 

And fall in spray around me, 

But do not think you are the first, 

Nor that it will confound me. 

1 know they are but as thin as air, 
I blow them for their beauty, 

But some think any dream too fair, 
And prick it as a duty. 

There' *s Many a Pear Tree JVhite 
With Bloom 

By Julia Johnson Davis 

There's many a pear tree white with bloom 

That I shall never see, 
1 cannot walk those ways again 

That once you walked with me. 

There's many a story in the books 

That I shall never know, 
I cannot turn beyond one page 

Because you turned it so. 

There's many a tender, merry word 

That I shall never hear, 
For all the dream is ended now, 

My dear, — my dear. 

■■<{ 8 ] 

W. W. Anderson 

Since the day Lucia was born and Benita had moved to the hut by the 
edge of the black woods, the villagers had looked on the mother with 
suspicion, for there was no father and Benita acted queerly. There 
was witchery here, they thought, but Benita paid very little attention to the 
inhabitants of the town and she reared Lucia to beautiful womanhood in 

But lately the daughter had spent too much time in the village. She was 
in love with Manlio and he with her. In love with a devil — as Benita saw 
him through greedy eyes and a crazed brain — a devil who had nothing but 
a poor plot of land and a small boat. Benita had determined that Lucia 
should marry Masfatti who was very rich and who had asked for her. He 
was old, and as old men will, he had turned to youthful beauty and his eyes 
glistened with salacious greediness whenever he saw Lucia. But Lucia loved 
Manlio with the love of youth. She had determined that they would marry 
but Benita thought differently. 

"You will marry Masfatti," she told Lucia. "You will. Masfatti is 
rich and old. He will not live long. Manlio has nothing. You will not be 
happy with such a man for he can grow nothing on that ground of his. Some 
day when he has gone out to fish, he will not return. I have given my con- 
sent that you marry Masfatti. You will or you shall regret it." 

But Benita could not be harsh for she loved her daughter and it was only 
through a disordered brain that Manlio appeared a devil and poor. Lucia 
was a woman; she paid little attention to her mother. She had already 
decided that she would marry none other than Manlio, so she remained 
silent. She became alarmed, however, when her mother no longer mentioned 
the subject. While she insisted, Lucia cared little but the silence confused 

Night after night she lay in her bed listening to soft footsteps and 
whispered words in the next room. A splinter of light from the hearth tire 

-4( 9 »- 



A pril 

always shone through a crack in the door and it danced and faded and dis- 
appeared as figures passed between the door and the fire. Lucia lay in her 
bed and had visions of strange people and actions until fitful sleep came 
over her. 

One day Masfatti came again to ask about Lucia. 

"She swears to marry Manlio or no one," Benita answered. "I have 
argued in vain. Perhaps you can persuade her." 

"I can wait," Masfatti said slowly. "There will be a way. She cannot 
hold out forever. Yes, I can wait until that time. Perhaps both of us 
together can prevent her from marrying him." And the corners of his 
mouth drew up into a malicious grin. 

Lucia continued to see her lover and Benita continued silent. She spent 
more time in the woods and fields gathering herbs, and at night the sounds 
of padding feet and whispers still came with the splinter of light through 
the crack in the door. 

Benita acted queerly. One day she demanded that Lucia marry Mas- 
fatti j but Lucia remained quiet. As the rich man's property grew larger in 
the eyes of Benita, Manlio became more diabolical. One day Lucia and 
Manlio were married. They moved to the little cottage on Manlio's land 
not far from Benita's hut and lived happily on the meagre supply of vege- 
tables that Manlio coaxed from the rocky ground and the fish that he caught 
from the sea. 

They were never visited by Benita and Lucia seldom went to her 
mother's cottage. The daily search for herbs now took the old woman past 
the estate of Masfatti, and as she passed while he was at work in the field, 
she always stopped. Since her daughter had not married Masfatti, there 
was no use letting him die to leave his wealth to anyone who chose to take it. 
An old woman was better than none, she reasoned; so she would take a 
pot of herb tea or a crusty cake to him on these trips. There were long talks 
and after many meetings, Benita broached her subject. 

"There is no need to wait," she said. "Why toil here hoping for youth ? 
They are both young and will live long." 

"I shall wait," the rich man answered slowly. "I am not yet old. There 
will come a time when I shall realize my wish. Yes — ." He meditated. 
"Yes, there will surely come a time," and he returned to his digging. 

Benita pondered over the wealth of Masfatti. One day she would swear 
to separate the young married couple; the next day the love for her 
daughter would blot all else from her mind. Still she wished for riches and 

-Hg| 1 )§►•■- 

she would evolve many plans whereby she might gain the wealth she The 

desired; but another day would pass and she would forget all her schemes. CAROLINA 

One afternoon after she had returned from a visit to Masfatti, she sat MAGAZINE 
brooding under the eave of her hovel. A neighbor passed and, unlike many 
of the townspeople, stopped to talk a bit. ..<>,„<,.. 

"Lucia and Manlio are well satisfied," the woman remarked. "A well 
matched couple." April 

Benita frowned. "Against my wishes she married that worthless one. 1927 

There will come no good of the match. But for Lucia's foolish will, we 
would be rich. Now neither of us has anything." Her wrinkled face was 
void of emotion. "There is a way to separate them," she almost screamed. 
"Then I shall have plenty." She grinned hideously and then frowned. 
Still — she loved her daughter. 

The woman moved on. Benita continued to sit on the stone step and 
gaze at the sun as it sank behind the horizon in a maze of soft clouds. As 
dusk came, the shadows of the great forest grew deeper but Benita sat and 
stared. Her mind wandered, piecing together in some vaguely coherent 
fashion the days of Lucia's babyhood. She remembered how she had played 
with her and made clothes for the single doll that Lucia owned and loved. 
She wanted her again and in her broken mind, she pictured Lucia as a baby. 
Her shrill laugh was lost over the rocky fields. Darkness gathered, a few 
stars began to blink through the blue-black velvet dome, and Benita sat on 
the stone step and grinned and thought of her baby daughter. Again she 
was a young mother with Lucia in her arms. 

Then one day Manlio became sick. He had never been ill before and 
he reasoned that it was not a weakening of the body but from some outside 
evil power. He knew of Benita's maniacal vows and he could accredit his 
illness to no other source. But he dared not tell Lucia. 

Lucia brewed tea and did as best she knew but when her husband got no 
better, she called the doctor. Fever, said the physician and left medicine 
and instructions. Lucia gave the powders to ManJio but she thought of 
other things. Her mother wanted her to marry Masfatti and if Manlio 
died, there might be some way of forcing her. Had her mother turned 
witch to kill Manlio? An absurd idea. Her mother had acted queerly and 
had made statements but Lucia knew she was as harmless as the morning air. 
Everyone else thought differently. However, she dismissed the notion 
with a shrug of her small shoulders. 

(Continued on Page 34) 
-«g{ 1 1 )3*~ 

MAGAZINE By John Richard Moreland 

Four Poems 

■•«*»■*•■ Sand Dunes 

,\p r )l You may not love them for you only see 


A stretch of common sand fringed with coarse grass 

Scorched by the sun, torn by cruel winds that pass 

Morning and night; or feel the misery 

Of blasted trees . . . and drouth . . . and loneliness. 

You may not love their brooding solitudes, 

The purple shadows of their changing moods, 

Nor sweep of winds so keen and pitiless. 

But () I love the dunes. I know their ways 
Through dark and dazzling hours from June to June. 
The tenderness of April, those bleak days 
Of white December, summer's torrid noon 
Starred with bleached bones . . . Now I am old 
And these low hills are dear to me as gold. 


I am blind with color, 
I am lashed with rain, 

I am filled with wonder 
That is sharp as pain. 

I am fed with beauty, 
I am bound and free ; 

I am clothed with gladness 
April walks with me! 

The Moth 

Prisoned within my room a moth, surf-white, 
Beats helpless wings again and yet again 
Against its prison house — a window pane — 
Lured by the moon whose fire consumed the i 
To ash that lay like silver snow upon 
The held, the hill, the tree. Adventurous sp: 
I felt its impotence, it great desire for flight, 
Flung wide the window and . . . the moth was 

I, too, am prisoner in these living walls 
Of flesh and bone. I dream by day and night 
Of distant goals. A strange voice calls and calls 
Horizons beckon and I long for flight 
Beyond and yet beyond life's tedious day, 
And past the awful quiet of death's clay. 

The Little House 

I was born upon the dunes 
In a little house 
Partly hid by sand that moved 
At the winds' carouse. 

One square window was its all, 
But it held for me 
My small world of sky and sand, 
Bird and boat and sea. 

Outside all the house was gray 
Weathered by the years ; 
Inside there was warmth and love 
Toil and dream and tears. 

Life is like that little house 
Built at love's command .... 
Lovely, fragile, strange and brief 
As blowing sand. 

-4 13^- 



A pit 



After Reading Herrick 

Clinton Scollard 

Again I see the leafy Devon lanes, 
■•<><■><>•■ The long gray highway out of Buckfastleigh, 

The swift Dean Water glancing in its glee, 
Afrit The squat thatched farmsteads and the veering vanes. 

*927 Again I see the slanting of the rains 

Tossing about the tors that gloomily 
Lift o'er the valley where, like melody, 
The memory of the poet still remains. 

There is the ancient church, serene, secluded, 
Where his voice droned the daily orison, 

And the old rectory where his mind brooded 
On bygone banquets at the Triple Tun; 

And where for solace at his lonely ease 

He shaped that Pillar — his Hesperides! 

-4 14)§*- 

Sea Bn 


By I). Pierson Ricks 


It was after darkness. Great Broadway was rushing toward Times 
Square. The clanging, honking, howling streets of New York always lead 
to Times Square at night. New York spends her day below Canal Street 
and her night at Times Square. New York always roars. Even in the middle 
of the night she honks and clangs and roars. She never goes to sleep. She 
is never silent. 

New York is heaven for a restless soul. New York herself is restless. 
Always moving, honking, roaring. And at night she adds a glitter. Thous- 
ands of lights everywhere confuse weary eyes. Thousands of horns, and 
street car gongs, and voices confuse weary ears. Thousands of everything 
. . . that's New York. New York is heaven for the restless. She is tilled 
with restless people. She makes one restless if he is not already so, and then 
satisfies his restlessness. 

A poet walked down lower Broadway. He was not going to Times 
Square. He wanted to get away from that roaring, moving mob. He wanted 
something to satisfy a deep longing in his soul. He wanted the sea breeze. 

About him in the glaring lights were people, always walking briskly, 
always looking straight ahead, always going somewhere. He was going 

He came to Wall Street and halted. Here was a place to get away from 
that mob. Wall Street sleeps at night. He turned down the dimly lighted, 
narrow little street. High above on both sides rose dark shadowy buildings. 
By looking straight up he could see the stars. But it is very hard to look 
straight up, and New York rarely ever does that. She sees too many man- 
made wonders to look at Nature. And then, it is very difficult to crane one's 
neck for any length of time. It is much simpler to go to the theatre. Many 
poets even do that and are satisfied. But the poet was not. He wanted the 
sea breeze. So he turned down Wall Street. 



He walked on a block in absent re very. He suddenly realized that he 
was alone. Behind him he could hear Broadway roaring. He was almost 
frightened, so sudden had been the change. One moment he had been 
in the middle of a mass of moving, crowded humans, and the next he was 
alone. He looked down the street. One solitary person was in sight. He 
was coming up the opposite side of the street, a shadowy, hurrying figure 
with nothing definite about him but a swinging cane that tap-tapped on the 
concrete sidewalk. He was going toward Broadway. 

The poet stopped and pulled out his tobacco pouch. He looked at the 
stars. Everybody always went toward Broadway. Broadway stepped on 
your toes, and jostled you, and punched you in the stomach and still 
attracted you. He carefully filled his pipe and pressed down the tobacco. 
Funny. He absently gave one or two little sucks on the unlit pipe. And he 
felt that way too. Sometimes. But not to-night. He closed the pouch and 
stuck it in his pocket. His hand ran through two or three pockets before it 
finally found a box of matches. He frowned slightly. He wished he could 
get in the habit of putting his matches in a certain pocket. He always did 
that way with his pipe. And his tobacco. But his matches .... He 
scratched one on the box and held it for a moment while it flared up. He 
lit his pipe carefully and puffed and watched the little balls of smoke. He 
threw away the match. And he always carried a pencil in his inside pocket. 
He would have to start putting his matches in his right hand coat pocket. 
He put them in. He repeated to himself: Right hand coat pocket. Right 
hand coat pocket. 

Someone was coming up the street. Was it a policeman? The poet felt a 
sudden panicky desire to flee. A policeman would think it suspicious to see 
him standing there. Especially on Wall Street. And especially in New 
York. Everybody hurried. Only fools ever stopped. Only fools ever 
stopped long enough to think. 

The approaching figure passed under a street light. It was a policeman. 
The poet started. He felt afraid. As a child might feel. He determined to 
be sensible and started forward. Sensible. That meant to act as people were 
supposed to act. As convention said. He wondered if he were not walking 
too fast. Police suspect everything. He suddenly hated all policemen. 

The poet puffed frantically on his pipe. Suppose the fellow should ask 
him what he was doing on Wall Street at night. Nobody had any business 
on Wall Street at night . . . unless it was a poet looking for a sea 

-•••$ 1 6 }^.. 

breeze and . . . how sympathetic would a policeman be to a poel looking The 

for a sea breeze? CAROLINA 

The policeman hardly saw him as he passed. The poet was trembling. MAGAZINE 
Why was he that way? Other people were not. He had been like that since 
childhood. A victim of little fancies. Perhaps he was more sensitive than .<>„,<,. 

other people. 

He suddenly realized that his pipe had gone out. He stopped to light April 

it. Confound it, where were those matches? Ah, there they were . . . / 927 

that's right ... he remembered putting them there ... his right hand 
coat pocket. 

He lit his pipe and almost put the box of matches in his trousers pocket. 
He would get himself into that habit. Right hand coat pocket. Right hand 
coat pocket. 

He came out into the wide cobblestone street that flanked the water. 
On the other side were the dusky, shadowy piers. A group of dirty, loud- 
mouthed children were playing under a light. He stood on the corner and 
watched them. Funny how children could play and grown-ups could not. 
Grown-ups wanted to play as much as children .... At least he did. 
But there was convention. One had to be dignified. He absently watched 
a piece of newspaper flutter across the street and finally disappear as it blew 
over a pile of lumber and into the water. He might write a poem about 
that. Newspaper . . . helpless . . . pushed by the wind. 

He was suddenly roused by shouting and, looking up, saw that two of 
the children were fighting. Dirty little devils. Always fighting, yelling, 
screeching. He watched them tear at each other and roll about with curses 
and shouts while the others crowded around. Let them fight. He hoped 
both of them got their smeary little faces torn to shreds. He hated these 
ugly urchins. The alleys were full of them. He had come down here for 
an inspiration and here were these yelling, fighting little vermin. A police- 
man sauntered into the street. Immediately there was a scampering of feet 
and away they flew; in a moment they had disappeared up an alley. 

The poet slowly walked over the cobblestones to the little pile of lum- 
ber. He climbed up and sat down facing the water. Pointed toward him 
was the bow of a huge ship. He refilled and relit his pipe. He leaned over 
and put an elbow on his knee and rested his face upon his hand. He puffed 
at his pipe and listened to the lapping of the waves against the hull of the 
towering monster and felt the sea breeze as it brushed his cheek. Somewhere 

-Hg[ 1 7 ►- 



out in the harbor he heard a ferry boat whistle and the steady chug-chug of 
a tug. Behind him New York was roaring ; before him poetry was whisper- 
ing. The sea breeze. There was nothing like it. And behind him New York 
was searching madly for a moment of pleasure. 

The spell of the thing quite overpowered him. The lapping of the 
waves, the smoke from his pipe, the distant roar behind him ... he 
began to doze. He slept for an hour or more. 

A shouting and yelling and running of feet woke him up. He sat up 
stiffly. He picked up his pipe and hat from where they had fallen. He 
should not have let himself sleep. Dangerous place to fall asleep. He came 
out from behind the lumber pile. A small crowd was gathered under one 
of the lights. Someone was fighting. Grown-ups this time. Probably a 
couple of drunken sailors. Would people never stop fighting and punching 
and shoving? Wouldn't they stop and look at beauty one timer These 
sailors . . . they live surrounded by beauty . . . but how ugly they are! 
A poet absorbs the beauty of his surroundings. But sailors . . . they must 
drink . . . and fight . . . and chase dirty women. 

He sat down on the edge of the pile of lumber and watched. Soon a 
patrol wagon drove up and policemen pushed through the crowd. They 
shoved someone in the patrol wagon and drove off. But the crowd still 
stood around. He distinguished two blue police caps in the middle of the 
crowd. Then an ambulance. The crowd parted for the machine. It stopped. 
Two white-coated figures swung to the ground with a stretcher and hur- 
riedly pushed a limp form inside. The doors slammed. Clang! The ambu- 
lance was off. The crowd slowly scattered. 

The poet walked over to where the little drama had been played. There 
was a pool of fresh blood on the cobblestones. Blood. As he turned and 
went off he heard a morbid lingerer tell a newcomer: 

"Yeah. Two sailors .... Yeah .... Well, they was drunk, see? 
.... One sticks a knife in .... " 

He walked up Wall Street slowly. Why were people so rotten? These 
sailors . . . they knew nothing of beauty . . . only dross. They were the 
dregs of society. They ate the dregs. He was one of the initiated. He 
loved beauty. He was a poet. 

Musing, he filled his pipe with tobacco and hunted for a match. Where 
were those confounded matches .... Ah, there they were. He would 
have to break himself of that. Right hand coat pocket. Right hand coat 

-•€{ 18)8*- 

II The 

When one has seen the sea . . . when one has ridden the sea ... a CAROLINA 
spell is cast about him that nothing can ever dispel. There is a roll to a ship \\ \ ( ; \/[\|. 
at sea, a pitching and tossing, that makes one scorn a steady floor. And a sea 
breeze at night. The stars overhead, the clanking of the rudder, the grind ..<>.„<>.. 

of the propeller and the the stinging breeze that burns the cheeks. There 
is nothing like it. God pity the poor landlubber who has never felt the April 

thrill of a night at sea. 7927 

The sailor had lived on the sea for twenty years. Those twenty years 
were not happy. They had been full of knocks and blows and had left 
scars. But they had been on the sea. Every sailor dreams of the day he will 
leave the ocean and set up a little store of his own in some seaside town. 
Every sailor dreams of this. But every sailor sticks to the sea. He can't 
help it. It is a part of him. And he loves it. The sailor was this way. But 
the law had taken the sea away from him. The law is cruel. 

Seven years is a long time to be shut up. Seven years is an eternity to 
be held from the sea . . . when the sea is a part of one. 

There was a great river outside the grated window. Ships passed along 
the river, barges, and sight-seeing boats, and sometimes a steamer was 
towed by to the government fleet up the river. But there were no waves. 
And the heavy concrete floors were steady. And the judge had said . . . 
"Life." That meant . . . death. 

The sailor was dying. He was like a gold fish that a child takes from 
its bowl and forgets. 

At evening a sea breeze would come up the river, smelling of salt and 
the ocean. The sailor would press his face against the bars and think. He 
thought too much. Seven years is a long time to think about one thing. The 
sailor imagined things. The guards pointed at their heads and raised their 
eyebrows. "Cracked." Fate had struck him too hard. 

He died and was buried. That was another thing that had bothered him. 
Burial. He had asked to be weighted down and put in the river. His desire 
had brought assurance from the guards that it would be done as he wished. 
Poor nut! He had a pretty bad case. 

The famous poet was reading a review of his latest book, "Sea Breezes." 
Funny how everybody had gone wild over the thing. He had been rather 
afraid to publish it. Afraid that people might not understand. When one 

-■••§{ 19J*- 

The is famous he must be careful to be understood. Of course he had considered 

CAROLINA it his best work . . . and, strangely enough, so had the critics. Funny. 
MAGA.ZINE ^ s e y e wandered idly over the page. 


These senators were always charging somebody with something ... or 
April e | se being charged by somebody of something. He absently read halfway 

^927 down the column. 

He glanced at the next column. 
Rot. He read beneath. He finished and threw the paper aside. What a lot 
of sentimental slush a reporter can get out of some ordinary little happen- 
ing. And the people like it. He wondered vaguely whether more people 
read his poems or that article. People are funny. 

He pulled out his tobacco pouch and carefully filled his pipe. He 
fumbled about for a minute. Where were those confounded matches? Ah, 
there they were . . . where he had left them ... in his right hand coat 



~4 20 ►- 


By Jacques Le Clercq 

"What's yours? ..." 
"The Majesty of the Law, friends! 1 ' 
"Happy days . . . . " 

"Quick! Jet us cross the road!" 
(A dog wails) — 
"So you knew Mona too? ..." 

It was Peace, then, and beautiful. 
I went to war. 
It is Peace now, and — . . . ? 

Dead hush of snow as after music. 
"For God's sake, speak! 
Your silence breaks my ear-drums!" 

The little dog of the fat lady died. 
Not even a Tokio earthquake or a Lusitania 
Could console her now. 

The meek shall inherit the earth. 
I am meek. 
Someone must have exaggerated .... 



. I pril 

«•*§{ 2 1 }§•■•- 



By R. K. Fowler 



The street 

In the bright spill 

And blazon of the sun 

Sucks up and holds the slanted rays- 

The flagstones every one 

Harboring a kiln 

Of heat. 


One night 

I heard a song 

With a sharp, jagged blade 

Of melody that subtly wounded — 

An aching melody that made 

Me thankful for its strong, 

Edged bite. 



Is a broidered cloak, 

Wrapping in hectic beauty 

The flesh and bones of sensitive men 

Who realize their duty 

To shield the joke 


-4 22 )§►.- 

IV The 


Through great, MAGAZINE 

Stern redwood trees 

The far-circling fleck ..<>.,<,.. 

Of a hawk is seen against the sky — 

A faint, discolored speck / p r j/ 

On a Chinese 

Willow plate. 

I face 

Lake-margining bands 

Of poplar trees, all hung 

With leaves which have the shimmering 

Of silver bangles flung 

By reckless hands 

Into space. 



In a web of sounds 

A softly moulded speech 

Splits into futuristic planes, 

Towers to a screech, 

Leaps and rebounds — 



-••«§{ 23 )3>- 




Lights In The Night 

By L. J. Stander 

lights through windows — 
like streaks of ocher 
on the dim body 
of a bantu tribesman. 

lights through street lamps — 
perverted parodies 
on the joyous song 
of noon. 

their harsh song 

jars upon 

my blurring eyes. 

multicolored lights — 
like flickering lanterns 
swaying in the hands 
of a dancing idiot. 

-h|( 24 )§►.- 

Timidity masquerades in our academic halls as "well balanced judg- 
ment," and any sort of boldness is pre-labeled without examination as 
unjudicious and superficial. Criticism is never anything but superficial 
except when it is destructive, and often it is both. It is permissible, though 
generally unadvisable, for a professor or student to think about non-aca- 
demic questions, but it is always regrettableif he "commits himself in public 1 ' 
about any subject on which people might disagree. Society grants her 
students and scholars leisure for years of study and thought, but demands 
that they have no opinions. A most disheartening illustration of this tragic 
truth occurred recently in connection with local discussion of the Sacco and 
Vanzetti case. 

Two obscure Italians, one a steady workman in a shoe factory and one 
a fish peddler, have been sentenced in a Massachusetts court to be electro- 
cuted for a crime which they obviously did not commit. Why? Because 
they were confessed "Radicals" and foreigners, and every good American 
knows that any radical may throw a bomb tomorrow even though he did 
not rob and kill a paymaster yesterday. Kill him today and save tomorrow's 

A youthful employee and former student of the University wrote an 
impetuous letter to a Durham newspaper in reply to an editorial on this 
case — an editorial which denied the right of a "bunch of foreigners" to 
protest against this complete breakdown of an American court. ( Will he 
never grow up? He believes in justice. ) He brought down upon himself a 
column-and-a-half avalanche of sarcastic fustian from an editor who 
confessedly knew nothing about the case but win) did know how to appeal 
to the pet taboos and prejudices of his section. All very natural, that which 
we have come to expect from our courts of injustice and our daily vendors of 
misinformation. But what was the reaction of the more solid members of 

-h< 25 j 




our own faculty? How about the Greatest of Southern Universities? It 
makes the heart ache. 

"It would seem that anyone would realize the unwisdom of rushing into 
public print about a controversial subject of such a sort. The University will 
probably hear more from this." 

The University of North Carolina desires to be considered a liberal 
institution- — and yet offend no one. And so, if the state has not decided 
whether or not Socialism is a capital offense, that is a controversial subject 
about which one must have either no opinions or private ones. It is a matter 
of controversy whether police officers and United States government agents 
shall falsify evidence in court proceedings against men who hold opinions 
not held by the administration. Anyone of mature judgment will see the 
folly of interference. For the mills of injustice grind exceeding fine, and 
the wise man will not get his fingers caught in the machinery attempting to 
rescue the innocent. 

One member of the faculty of the Harvard Law School, Felix Frank- 
furter, has been so injudicious as to publish an article defending Sacco and 
Vanzetti in the Bolshevistic Atlantic Monthly and has even published a book 
on the subject. Other members of the faculty of this notoriously Commun- 
istic university have stood with the defense. But the University of North 
Carolina is a liberal institution and will not make such a lamentable mistake. 
Only the very young and naive will wince at injustice or resent this debase- 
ment of American courts. 

Fortunately the above is not wholly fair, is not the complete picture. 
There are many extremely liberal men in our faculty. And yet this liberality 
seldom projects itself outside the little academic circle, seldom expresses 
itself on questions of vital importance. Philology and science and history 
that is dead absorb their energies and sublimate their liberal feelings. The 
mills of scholarship grind on, and the rougher world outside is kept outside. 
And those who were shocked at the temerity of theyoung man who protested 
that innocent men should not be executed for their opinions, are good men. 
They express themselves as they do largely, I am sure, because of their 
ignorance. "Will he never grow up?" they ask because they have not read 
the damning evidence, do not realize how rudely the fundamental safe- 
guards of safety and justice have been brushed aside by Judge Thayer and 
his court. H. R. F. 

-"€( 26 )Jh- 

I Jbrary Statue 



Venus the beautiful, MAGAZINE 

Straitly serene 

Masking the probable, ..<>m<>- 

Voiceless obscene. 

April ! 

Stiff atmosphere pending J 927 

A somnolent doze, 

Second-hand knowledge 

In cumbersome rows. 


Freshmen at catalogues — 
Dumb hunted looks. 
Petulant graduates 
Burdened with books. 

Venus the beautiful, 
Hard-marble stare — 
Drapery crinkled, 
Breasts broad and bare. 

Thin dirty trailings 
Streak their rotundity, 
Crude definitions 
Of student profundity. 

Bleakly insouciant 

The pale goddess stands — I 

Her breasts fouled and fingered i 

By sex-bitten hands. ! 

R. K. F. 


••••€{ 27 ►- 


For the consolation of other unfortunates who have flunked Math I 
and II, The Magazine would like to call attention to some heretical state- 
ments which are found even in Griffin. Till now we have blindly believed 
that two and two are four, inalterably and irrevocably, tomorrow as well as 

But no more. For someday some student with murderous intent is 
going to prove that tomorrow two and two will have relatively decreased in 
value to 3.9999999 and Professor Williams and the Math department will 
face the great unknown. 

The reason for this is found on page ! 85: "In solving triangles we use 
the theorem that the sum of the angles of any triangle is 180 degrees. You 
will recall from geometry (Ed's note: We did not.) that the proof of this 
theorem rests upon the assumption (sic) that through a given point one and 
only one line can be drawn parallel to a given line. 

"This assumption is not certainly knozvn to be true. There are 'Non- 
Euclidean' geometries, perfectly logical, in which the assumption is denied. 
According to these geometries, the angle sum differs from 180 degress, — 
but imperceptibly in triangles of ordinary size. No one knozes ivhich system 
of geometry is true ( also sic) of the space in which we live, but the 'Euclid- 
ean' geometry and trigonometry which you have studied ( Ed's Note — r ) 
are simpler than the others, and are always used in practical work." 




The Red Pavilion. John Gunther. Harper & Brothers. $2. 269 pp. 

The Red Pavilion should be exhibit A in the case against the Young Sophisticates. 
Any novel is improved by a judicious injection of cleverness, but nothing is so deadl) 

as an over-inoculation. When sophistication becomes an obsession, when every 
page totters under the strain of smartness, a novel is stnuiLih reminiscent of the 
monologue carried on by an undergraduate who has just discovered Hecht. The Red 
Pavilion is such a novel. Mr. Gunther's determination to be clever is obnoxiously 
evident. The whole hook is a maze of tricks,' mannerisms and distortions which might 
have seemed pleasingly original had they not been so lavishly applied. His insistence 
upon sprightliness soon became enervating. 

I feel safe in saying that Mr. Gunther will eventually regret the bedizened 
display of his first book — that he will wish he had conserved some of his trappings 
for future reference. His present delight is to pour forth bits of obscure information 
in a pointless splurge. It matters not if the information be pertinent to plot develop- 
ment; he drags it in gleefully — anxious to show that he knows the names of seventy- 
two deities and the formulae for numerous chemical compounds. In this respect, his 
novel is almost encyclopedic. He inaptly prates of El Greco, Katharsis, svzvgv, 
torture, the Periodic Law, pastry, chastity belts, pedicures, catalysis, philately, and 
IVeltsc/unerz. He makes exhaustive and exhausting lists of religions, colors, French 
wines, poisons and classical music. For no reason at all, he inserts passages in French 
and Russian. He tacks on irritatingly stupid foot-notes. He would appear to be a 
young man who has read omnivorously and desires to prove it. He crams his book 
with ill-assorted erudition and crushes its possibilities under a laborious jumble of 
facts and figures. 

The people in the book are fair imitations of the characters in Huxley's These 
Barren Leaves, in Norman Douglas' South W'ni/I, in Thornton Wilder's Cabala. 
They talk like Arlen's Ma}- Fair puppets with a college degree. Gunther genuflects 
gracefully to the modern tradition and sees to it that none of them are quite normal. 
The fluctuant married state of Richard and Shirley Northway affords something of 
a study in warped emotion. Austin Devery drinks champagne while having his nails 
trimmed and seeks sexual satisfaction at precisely the same hour each week. Doris 

4 29 }§*••- 



. I pril 

Barron, age nineteen, prides herself upon the loss of her virginity and hrags to 
anyone who will listen. The young.' Jewish poetaster, Leon Goodman, craves 
suffering to the point of mental masochism; as an added stroke, he is impotent. Take 
such a hodge-podge of animated psychoses, place them around a table where they can 
eat caviare and discourse on Debussy, force them into situations tending toward 
suicide and animalism, play up sex, Art and cynicism — and you have Mr. Gunther's 
idea of a novel. R. K. Fowler 

Rabelais Returns 

Elmer Gantry. Lewis, Sinclair. New York: Harcourt, Brace & Co. $2.50. 

Sinclair Lewis needs no introduction to the American reading public; he has 
always been welcome. To a certain portion of that public Elmer Gantry will be 
welcome; to another portion that colossal hypocrite will be another skeleton in the 
closet which must be resolutely shrouded with a sickly camouflage of fundamentalism. 
Mr. Lewis found favor when he satirized contemporary American social conditions; 
but when he satirizes our religion he is provoking our righteous wrath. Wherever 
the influence of the pulpit is strong the challenge thrown down by Elmer Gantry will 
be taken up. In fact, the denunciations have already begun, and they should easily 
make the novel a "best seller." 

Mr. Lewis has attacked the matter of our ministerial and evangelistic hypocrisy 
from the inside. He is apparently well acquainted with the various dogmas, the 
machinery of church politics, the intricacies of denominational theology, and the 
conventional rhetoric of those whom he styles "the godly." And he has not written 
with a gloved hand; he flays our creeds by name and number, with especial emphasis 
upon the Baptist and the Methodist. 

The controversy over his appearance would, however, not have fazed Elmer 
himself in the slightest. He would hardly have understood it. From the time when 
he shared his room at college with the atheistic Jim Lefferts until the time when he 
accepts executive affiliation with the National Association for the Purification of Art 
and the Press, he is primarily crude and stupid. But his crudities and stupidities are 
on such a Gargantuan scale that his fellows willingly accord him the recognition 
justly due to one so infinitely superior to themselves. 

The author leaves few chances for religion to appear in a favorable light. All of 
Ilis characters connected with the dispensation of salvation are absurdly silly or overly 
dogmatic or unbelievably hypocritical. Even Elmer's mother, who appears to be 
more sincere than anyone else, impresses us as merely a well-meaning busy-body. 
Mr. Lewis is undoubtedly a clever satirist; but he has allowed himself to overplay 
his hand. He evidently enjoyed himself thoroughly in writing the book and it seems 
to have been written rather hurriedly; hence his style suffered. 

The story holds more interest than that of any novel the author has yet produced. 
Beginning with the attractive confidence that "Elmer Gantry was drunk" it advances 
steadily and entertainingly through all of Eln 

i digressions from the "true and 


narrow." But, undoubtedly, it is somewhat lurid—somewhat too lurid. Even Sharon 
Falconer, who greatly resembles Aimee McPherson, is painted with a brush dipped 

in the .vd hue of sensationalism, though Elmer's relations with her are a little 
softened by something faintlj resembling romance. 

Rut despite the overdrawn characters and the lurid elements in the plot, Elmer 
Gantry is a powerful satire. It not only upholds Mr. Lewis' enviable reputation as 
an author; it improves upon that reputation. If you are not a fundamentalist you 
should read it, because you will enjoy and appreciate it. If you are a fundamentalist 
VOU Should likewise read it, because it will arouse your righteous indignation to a 
very pleasurable pitch. Henry Brandts, Jr. 



. / pril 

"The Great American" 

Tomorrow Morning. By Anne Parrish. Harpers. 305 pp. $2.50. 

A story of a mother's love for her son done with an infinite tenderness. A con- 
vincingly truthful story of the family life that we all know by virtue of personal 
contact. A story of three generations so smoothly and realistically combined that we 
are completely unaware of what might be the boring life of a widowed mother. 
Anne Parrish lets her characters die and be forgotten in a paragraph, thereby elimi- 
nating that sometimes prevalent element called melodrama. Her hero grows three 
years older in a sentence. He marries and goes to Europe between one chapter and the 
next. The couple returns to America in a paragraph. 

Tomorrow Morning portrays the life of a happy, hopeful family. Kate marries 
Joe Green and thev go to live in Westlake. A son, Joe, Jr., is born and while he is 
vet a child, the father dies from too much drink. Kate is thrown upon her own 
resources and, as she was a dilettante painter before she married, she makes a bare 
living by painting score cards and other novelties and teaching school. Joe grows 
older, finishes college and goes to work in Westlake. Later he goes to New York 
and meets Evelyn, marries her and spends his honeymoon in Europe. They return to 
Westlake and soon a daughter is born. They live happily for a while until Evelyn, 
tiring of the small town and becoming homesick for the rich friends and social 
events to which she has been accustomed, leaves Joe, Jr. He gives her the baby, con- 
sents to a divorce, and returns to live with his mother, who has been putting off the 
resumption of her art studies saving always that she will start "tomorrow morning." 

The thread of the storv is colored by Kate's love for Joe, Jr.; while the mother 
love, so delicately woven into the story and Kate's persistent procrastination make the 
novel a delightful romance. The book in its entirety is so genuine and skillfully 
written that the reader imagines himself an unseen witness of the little drama, ming- 
ling with the characters who seem to step from the pages into the actuality of real 

W. W. Anderson 

-4 3 1 j§*» 

rhe Decent Burial 

CAROLINA ,,,„;„„,, frnm Pna , 7) 



There she set about preparing the little body for burial and was trans- 
formed by the task. Every trace of hardness vanished from her sharp old 
face and the beauty of sanctified motherhood took its place. The rough red 
hair which had so stubbornly refused to tone down into a softer grayness 
as age came upon her changed now to a halo as she bent over the dead child, 
slipping upon the stark limbs the tiny garments with which she had dressed 
her own baby in her broken girlhood so long ago. There swept over her 
wave after wave of bitter-sweet memory. She lived again the days of her 
happy betrothal, she felt again the shock of her lover's tragic death and the 
greater one of finding herself bearing his child within her body. The mid- 
wife who had been with her at John's birth had told her that if her child 
should die it would not be permitted to be in the graveyard, and in answer 
to her startled questions had explained that no such child was ever buried 
so; they must lie outside the fence. As she remembered this a sort of rage 
seized her. She had already arranged that no such thing should happen 
to this child which might be John's. It should lie beside John's father. 
That was right. When the cold form was clothed she laid it gently upon 
the bed and spread a white cloth over it. With an effort she aroused herself 
from her dreaming, pulled herself back out of the haunted past into the 
ghastly present. She must contrive a coffin somehow and that before half 
past ten. 

Ten-thirty was the hour for Sunday morning preaching in the little 
church half a mile up the road from Mahaley's cabin and as vehicles of 
various kinds began to draw up to the place shortly before this hour and 
their occupants to alight there were many interested and curious questions 
about the activity in the graveyard back of the church. Two men were 
evidently digging a grave but no one knew of a death. When the preacher 
arrived and it was learned that he knew nothing about it curiosity could no 
longer be restrained. Two men with the preacher went over to make 
inquiries. Presently they returned, the other two sheepishly leaving the 
preacher to announce with what modesty he could command: 

"Tizzie Allbright's baby." 

Swift and scandalized glances flew among the women as they went into 
the church. In pregnant undertones and with expressive up-liftings of the 

-<6{ 32 )§*»■- 

brows the questions of new arrivals were answered. The benches gradually The 

filled with the respectable men and women of the community, the preacher CAROLINA 

took his place and the opening hymn was sung. As the song ended Mahaley MAGAZINE 

walked into the church. Every eye was upon her even as she crossed the 

threshold. Under one arm and resting upon her bony hip she bore a small .<>,,<>. 

box. She was bareheaded and her red hair straggled about her face. 

Oblivious of the eyes upon her she went up the aisle of the church, with April 

her free hand lifted a chair to a position in front of the pulpit and upon it 7927 

placed the box. Stretched over its surface were narrow strips of a worn 

sheet held in place along the edges and at the corners with carpet tacks. 

A faded red artificial flower with a sprig of cedar was fastened upon the lid. 

Through the thin old cloth on the side toward the congregation glared the 

legend "IVORY SOAP 1 ' in heavy black lettering. Facing the preacher 

Mahaley pushed aside her wind blown hair. 

"Thev's a baby in that cofRn. Air y' willin' t' preach it a fun'ral?" she 

The preacher signified his willingness and stepping down beside her said 
in a low tone, "But I cannot understand why you bring it here, Mis' Lucas. 
I understood that the men were digging the grave for Lizzie Allbright's 
baby. Is this :" 

Mahaley's chin lifted ominously. "Them that don't ast no questions 
won't git no lies told to 'em," she said sharply. "All I'm a astin' you is will 
you preach it a fun'ral." As the preacher turned back into the pulpit 
Mahaley added, "I want y' sh'd preach it about the baby an' not about them 
as brought it int' the world. It hain't been here long enough to do no 
weekedness yit," and she sat down alone on the front bench. 

Through the partial knowledge which they already possessed, assisted 
by the few words overheard between Mahaley and the preacher the truth 
was made certain to the respectable congregation Which suddenly found 
itself in the embarrassing position of attending the funeral of an unhallowed 
child and although everyone knew that the grave was prepared for it within 
the walls of the consecrated ground of the church yard not one respectable 
voice was raised in protest. 

The preacher changed his text for the morning from Ezekiel's stern 
"The soul that sinneth it shall die," to Christ's gracious "Inasmuch." But 
he did not speak of the child as Mahaley had asked him to do but rather, 
from the authority of the Book he glorified the old woman sitting mutely 

-4 32 )§►-- 

The and alone before him. The eyes of the respectable congregation were sus- 

CAROLINA piciously moist at times and occasionally a respectable hand stole up to 
MAGAZINE remove a glistening drop from a respectable cheek. 

The discourse over, the minister stepped down,bore the little coffin tothe 

..€>,»<,.. u P en grave close beside the sunken one where Henry Terrill had lain so long. 

Mahaley pressed close behind him, standing by until a smooth mound 

April marked the place where the baby lay. Then taking her shovel and giving no 

7927 heed to the curious bystanders she walked down the stony road to her cabin. 

John Lucas lounged in the door way, whistling idly, his back slanted 

against the jamb. His form gave a little to let his mother pass. She went 

over to the stove, lifted a lid and stirred the dead ashes with the stove hook. 

"Y' didn' have no breakfas' did y' John?" she said. "I guess you're 

hungry by now. I'm a gonna cook y' a fryin' chicken fer yer dinner." 


(Continued from Page 11 ) 

Manlio would have the doctor no more and day by day he grew weaker. 
One night he lay very still and his face blanched to a colorless white. Lucia 
spoke to him, but he did not answer. She put her head to his breast. His 
heart was beating faintly and uncertainly. Alarmed, she threw on a shawl 
and ran down the path that led past her former home and to the priest's. 

As she came to Benita's hut, she paused for breath. A light shone 
through the dirty window in one end of the house and at intervals a shadow 
passed between it and the fire on the hearth. Forgetting her husband in a 
moment of fearful curiosity, she crept to the window and peered in. The 
old woman walked back and forth before the fire, murmuring while she 
fumbled with something in her bony hands. Her hair hung in strings over 
her faded blue dress and the fire cast dark shadows over her lean face. 
Lucia looked more closely. Her blood froze and her body gave a shudder. 
She screamed silently. Mother of God! It was true after all. Her mother 
was sticking pins in something! Witches killed people like that. They 
stuck pins in little figures until the person died. Horror-stricken, she ran 
stumbling from the hut toward the village. On her way, she stopped to beg 
a friend to go to her cottage and sit with Manlio until she returned with the 
priest. In her terror, she told of what she had seen and fled down the rocky 

-4 34 )§••- 

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The woman remembered what Benita had said that day about making 
Lucia marry Masfatti and now, by witchery, Benita was killing Manlio. 
She went to the houses of a few friends and, after gathering a small crowd, 
started up the slight hill to the hut by the wood. The door was bolted. One 
of the men shouted for it to be opened but there came no sound and several 
of the men broke the flimsy boards and the crowd pushed in. 

"Hang her," cried one. 


"She has killed Manlio. Hang her!" 

Benita was jerked from the front of the dying fire and thrown to the 
floor. A doll fell in one corner as she sprawled over the packed earth. A 
pile of knotty roots was heaped on the hearth and a pan of thick substance 
bubbled in the ashes. Benita laughed and her bony fingers clawed at the 

"What are you doing?" questioned a man. "What have you done to 

But the old woman stared vacantly at the crowd as a silly grin forced 
itself over the haggard face. She said nothing. 

"Hang the witch," cried one, "hang her." And Benita was dragged from 
the hut and into the shadows of the forest, a profusion of incoherent words 
babbling from the thin lips. 

Lucia returned and found the small crowd gathered about her husband's 
bed. Manlio's breathing was easier, the fever gone and a slight pink showed 
on either cheek. Lucia collapsed with fatigue and for several days she too 
appeared to have been included in the spell. The doctor was called again 
and gradually the pair recovered. A neighbor stayed until they were able 
to be up and Lucia was told of her mother. 

"She was killing Manlio through her witchery," one of the women said, 
"and she was hung. She may have practiced her evil cunning on any of us. 
She was best out of the way." 

Lucia stared into the distance and said nothing. Her mother had been 
crazed with the desire for wealth. But she would not injure her child. She 
was no witch. Lucia knew. Why had she thought such a thing? These peo- 
ple had done a hideous thing and she, in her terror, had been the cause. 

A few days later, she walked over the rocky path to Benita's hut. It had 
not been touched since that night. A few weeds had sprung up about the 
stone steps and the door lay splintered on the threshold. It was late after- 
noon. The sun was sinking behind a maze of dull clouds and the shadows 



the score is close* 

Keep cool with 

That good-grape drink 

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a py.ii sung to when she was a child; the same doll that her mother had helped her 

1Q07 dress! She carried it to. the door. Two pins held a patch of faded blue 

cloth about its rag body. 

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The Writers 



Julia Johnson Davis, one of the "Virginia poets" lives in Norfolk, 
and is well known as a contributor to contemporary magazines. . . . 
Lilith Shell has contributed to nearly every number of The Magazine 
from her home in Pennsylvania. She was originally from North Carolina 
. . . . R. K. Fowler, who received quite a bit of publicity some months 
ago from his story "Slaves" is assistant editor of The Magazine. ... 
W. W. Anderson is the editor-elect of The Buccaneer. He has also 
been added to the "Pasture." .... Jacques LeClercq is a New York 
poet, playwright, and Columbia University professor. . . . John Richard 
Moreland is another of the "Virginia poets" and was the founder and 
former editor of The Lyric. He has contributed to The Reviewer) 
Munsey , s, McCalls, and numerous others. . . . Clinton Scollard is at 
present in Florida where he is heading the poetry movement there. He is 
represented in the world of poetry by many volumes of verse. . . . L. J. 
Stander is a freshman at this University. . . . D. Pierson Ricks, 
although a freshman this year, was the author of "Green Paint," the play 
which won the state contest for high schools last year. . . . Virginia Lay, 
who has contributed both woodcuts and verse to The Magazine, will edit 
the coming issue. 

-4 40 )§•»- 

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MAY, 19 27 



Drawing from "Emperor Jones" Aaron Douglas 

The Negro Enters Literature Charles S. Johnson 

Old Mansion Arna Bontemps 

Symphonesque Arthur Huff Fauset 

Fulfillment Helene Johnson 

The Hunch Eulalie Spence 

Drawing from "Emperor Jones" Aaron Douglas 

Poetry Section 
Book Review 

manuscripts should be addressed t 

, The Carolina Magazine, Box 770, Chapel 


1^ ^^CM^m^^^^M^jM^^^^ 

Drawing from "Emperor Jones" By Aahox Dot 




The Negro Enters Literature 

By S. Johnson 

•egro literature, like early American literature, is more interest- 
ing as history thaia as creative art. The parallel does not stop here: 
both have been unnaturally influenced by literary patterns alien to 
their experience; both have been damaged, on the one hand, by rather 
excessive claims to importance as Literature, and on the other, by ruthless 
sometimes disdainful comparisons, out of their essential social setting and 
limitations, with older literatures and peoples; both reflect above all else, 
the violent currents of thought and life in the new world, and, with 
striking frequency, the very same currents even if from different planes. A 
discerning writer in one of the southern literary reviews asks, not unwisely, 
whether, after all, "we should not frankly recognize the fact that American 
writers have been more successful in mirroring social and economic and 
political conditions than in creating works of art." There is a certain reason- 
ableness in this point of view for anyone who has 'actually read the poetry 
of Anne Bradstreet, Noyes and Oakes, or the fiction of Mrs. Susanna 
Haswell Rowson, and who recalls that the Declaration of Independence, 
the Federalist, and Washington's Addresses, nevertheless, rank as the most 
important literary contributions to the period. Such a point of view is more 
charitable to Negro literature, and undoubtedly makes its contributions more 
intelligible, and more significant. 

-«§{ 3 }§►- 



Two other distinctions are important. In a sense not applicable to the 
American people as a whole, Negro experience has yielded an artistic contri- 
bution of a sort, uncounted, perhaps, because unconsciously made. Their 
years of servitude have left a deposit of rich lore delicately threaded 
through the pattern of American life, and a strange inimitable music, 
which, in its vitality and varied forms, grows deeper and wider in influence 
with the years. They were the subjects of literature long before they began 
seriously to create it. In their conscious contributions there is a necessary 
distinction to be made between that writing which is "Negro literature" in 
the sense of expressing a group consciousness, and that writing by men who 
happened merely to be Negroes. The not inconsiderable list of theological 
treatises of such Negroes as Lemuel Haynes, N. C. Cannon, William Catto, 
and even the verse of Jupiter Hammon, who antedates Phyllis Wheatley, 
when construed broadly as literature, fall within this class, and are roughly 
analogous to the theological writings of Jonathan Edwards, the Mathers 
and the religious doggerel of Wigglesworth. So, also, must be considered 
the work of such extraordinary persons as William Stanley Braithwaite, 
lyricist of great charm and anthologist, and Benjamin Brawley who, quite 
apart from his Negro history has written a textbook of English literature, — 
free-floating individuals who have appeared occasionally and mingled their 
contribution, without the distinctive mark of race, to the general fund of 
American Literature. 

Although the saga of the transplanted African has been scarcely more 
than marginal notes to the drama of America, no wholly intelligent view 
of the new world development is possible which does not embrace the 
experiences of these new Cimerii, so intimate and yet so remote in their 
gloom-world, whose reflections, through their literature are a sort of 
penumbra of this whole life, softening it into its full beauty. 

Slavery as an institution grew, not from a sudden inspiration, but step 
by step, as economic necessity made peace with conscience. The process 
required remaking and adjusting of the concepts of race, religion, humanity 
itself. The periods of change in national and group attitudes have their 
most poignant reflection in the Negro literature. Phyllis Wheatley, the 
slave poet who published her first volume of verse at the age of twenty 
belonged to the colonial period in more than one sense. She came just 
twenty years after Anne Bradstreet, first American woman poet, with verse 
which bears up interestingly under comparison. As a Negro writer she is 

posited in an almost echoless solitude. She had no followers; her patterns 
were Ovid and the English classicists who inspired her contemporaries. 
The vast bulk of her poetry was personal and unracial, — she indited lines 
"To the King's Most Excellent Majesty," "To His Excellency, General 
Washington," odes to Neptune, and to Maecenus, and to numerous friends 
on the death of relatives. A magnificent exception she was, in this period of 
almost universal Negro illiteracy. When she went to England in 1773 she 
considered it wise to arm herself with attestations in her book by Governor 
Hutcherson, John Hancock and some others that she actually wrote the 
poems ascribed to her. George Horton of North Carolina, near the close 
of the 18th century, was composing verse which he could not even set down 
in writing. He nearly bought his freedom with the love lyrics which he 
composed for students of the University of North Carolina, to be used 
among the young ladies of the vicinity. Assisted to literacy by some of the 
professors of the school, he published in 1829 a volume of verse, "The 
Hope of Liberty," and numerous hymns. 

Tike strange, broken voices these writers of verse appeared, some thirty 
or more between Wheatley and Dunbar. Perhaps the most notable of 
these was Frances E. W. Harper of Baltimore. The institution of slavery 
and its supporting theories grew. The attempts of the Negroes to express 
themselves were a struggle, without equipment, against the fast crystallizing 
philosophy of their sub-humanity, and against the treason of the very 
religion which they had embraced. They were to learn that their brains 
were lighter, wrongly placed; that their frontal sutures closed earlier, — 
always with the same devastating ergo! Charles Carroll could argue with 
finality that "man was made in the image of God and since God, as everyone 
knows was not a Negro, it followed that the Negro was not a man." Those 
Negro writers who, after a long silence, followed Phyllis Wheatley, thought 
in terms of vital rebuttal. When Benjamin Banneker of Maryland, mathe- 
matician and astronomer, prepared his Almanac with involved calculations, 
he sent the manuscript to Thomas Jefferson praying that his accomplishment 
would help remove the general conceptions about his race. The articulate 
ones, through every medium at hand were compelled to establish first, their 
humanity. And so it was that the period just prior to the Civil War by its 
intensity turned practically all expression into the channel of personal nar- 
ratives, — those stories based upon the personal experiences of fugitive 
slaves, which, in themselves held greater immediacy and dramatic power 




-H< 5 )§►" 




than either poetry or fiction. These made valuable material for the Aboli- 
tionists, to whose insistence may be accredited the preservation in record of 
many of these stories. Some are shot through with bright threads, and 
despite a frequent crudeness, they have moments of real beauty. Jessie 
Fauset, one of the moderns, was inspired to a poem by this brief paragraph 
from the autobiography of Sojourner Truth, which seems to catch naively 
in its lap the vast tragedy and unutterable longing of slavery: 

"I can remember when I was a little girl, how my old mammy would 
sit out of doors in the evenings and look up at the stars and groan, and I 
would say, 'Mammy, what makes you groan so? And she would say, 'I am 
groaning to think of my poor children; they do not know where I be and 
I don't know where they be. I look up at the stars and they look up at the 
stars!' " 

These narratives continued even after emancipation, being in their later 
form a more sophisticated revolt against the subtler limitations upon status. 
The Memoirs of Ignatius Sancha, the intrepid African, were published in 
1 808, The Story of Richard Allen, founder of the African Methodist Epis- 
copal Church, appeared even earlier, in 1793. William Wells Brown, both 
in his personal narrative and in his Clotel, an attempt at a novel based upon 
a dramatic story of real life, revealed an uncannily alert and sensitive mind 
and command of English; Henry Box Brown, J. W. C. Pennington, the 
fugitive blacksmith, and Samuel Ringold Ward had stories more powerful 
than their styles, while Frederick Douglas, the greatest of the fugitives, 
lacked neither style nor story. These personal narratives steadily broadened 
from vicarious experiences to attempts to express group aspirations and 
emotions. They were yet a vital part of this literature when Booker T. 
Washington's Up From Slavery, a story of universal appeal, appeared, and 
they reached their highest art in the magnificent and bitterly intense Souls 
of Black Folk by W. E. Burghardt DuBois, which appeared in 1902. 

Emancipation ushered in a new phase of life and expression. With their 
"paper freedom" they set out to copy the gloss of their surrounding culture, 
rebelling against every symbol of their so recent enslavement. Except for 
the fading light of a few brilliant survivors of the crisis, nothing of any 
consequence was produced until Dunbar. Coming at that dark period, when, 
with the release of the working classes, the independent struggle for exist- 
ence had become more severe, he caught the concept of the more tolerable 
Negro in his pathetic and contagiously humorous moods, accepted him 

•ggage of a p 

.roblem, and in- 


ide him likab 

le, — this simple, 


usicaJ dialect 
e in 1 [arpers 

and infectious 
, hailed Dunbar 


me breath wit 

it lyrically. He 
h Robert Burns. 



lit new tires of 



that the world, 


without apology and without his miserable 
vested him with a new humanity More, he 
kindly, joyous creature, with his softly nui 
rhythm. William Dean Ilowells, in an articl 
as the first to feel Negro life aesthetically i 
became a poet of folk life, mentioned in the sai 
He lifted Negro poetry to a level of critical 
hope among Negroes, then died, broken and 
ignoring his loftier unrestricted verse had "turned to praise a jingle in a 
broken tongue." The acceptability of his dialect verse, however, inspired 
a host of followers, few of whom captured the convincing spontaneity of 
his poetry. Daniel Webster Davis, of Richmond, Virginia, seems to have 
achieved his style most successfully in his volume of poems published under 
the title, "Weh Down Souf." This period produced one novelist of compe- 
tence in Charles W. Chestnut of Cleveland, Ohio. He wrote and published 
five volumes before 1906, realistic stories and novels of the Reconstruction 
period, of that highly charged world of mixed blood relations across the 
line of race; then his pen fell silent, although he still lives. The years 
between 1900 and 1915 were years of restlessness, uncertainty and transi- 
tion. Hesitatingly at first and later with greater daring, Negro writers 
struck a note of frank discontent ranging in temper from bitter resentment 
to Christian forbearance. Frequently their verse was freighted with racial 
woes; and occasionally they spoke in terms of universal appeal; they dis- 
carded dialect because of its limitations, their technical command improved, 
their work had the authentic ring of poetry. Joseph S. Cotter, father and 
son, James Weldon Johnson, Leslie Pinckney Hill, Fenton Johnson, 
Edward Everett Hawkins, Lucien B. Watkins, Georgia Douglas Johnson, 
Ann Spencer, Charles Bertram Russell, Alice Dunbar-Nelson, Roscoe C. 
Jamison, D. Corruthers, William Stanley Braithwaite, Jessie Fauset, and 
Angelina Grimke, a notable array, began that interesting tradition which 
blends the expression of the race-mind, with a refined equipment. James 
Weldon Johnson's Creation most vividly symbolizes the gross transition. 
Aside from being one of the most moving religious poems in American 
literature, it achieves a rare craftsmanship. In naive, non-dialect speech, it 
blends the rich imagery of the uneducated Negro minister with the finished 
skill of a cultured Negro poet. In a curious fashion it bespeaks the meeting 
and parting of the old and new in Negro life in America: 

-••$ 7 fc~ 



"And God stepped out on space 
And He looked around and said, 
'I'm lonely 
I'll make me a world.' 

And as far as the eye of God could see 
Darkness covered everything, 
Blacker than a hundred midnights 
Down in a cypress swamp. 

Then God smiled, 

And the light broke, 

And the darkness rolled up on one side, 

And the light stood shining on the other, 

And God said, 'that's good' . . . ." 

The commentators farther removed from the present phase of Negro 
expression will be .able to define more clearly the influence of those social 
and economic forces shortly after the World War, moving beneath the new 
mind of Negroes which burst forth with freshness and vigor in an artistic 
"awakening." With this awakening, probably from the same cause or 
possibly as a result of it, has come an improved public attitude of acceptance 
and welcome for these new voices. The first startlingly authentic note was 
sounded by Claude McKay, a Jamaican Negro living in America. If his was 
again a note of protest it came clear and unquivering. But it was more than 
a protesting note; it was one of stoical defiance which held behind it a spirit 
magnificent and glowing. One poem, "If We Must Die," written at the 
most acute point of the new industrialism of Negroes, when sudden mass 
contact in the northern states was flaming into riots, voiced for Negroes 
where it did not itself create, a mood of stubborn defiance. It was reprinted 
in practically every Negro newspaper, and quoted wherever its audacious 
lines could be remembered. But McKay could also write lyrics utterly 
divorced from these singing daggers. "Spring in New Hampshire" is one 
of them. He discovered Harlem and found a language of beauty for his 
own world of color. 

"Her voice was like the sound of blended flutes 
Blown by black players on a picnic day." 

He left America, spent a while in Russia, moved to France where he now 

~<{ 8 ►- 

Jean Toomer flashed like a blazing meteor across the sky, then sank The 

from view. But in that brilliant moment of his flight he illumined the CAROLINA 
fore-Held of this literature. Cane> a collection of verse and stories, appeared MAGAZINE 
about two years ahead of its sustaining public mood. It was significantly a 
return of the son to the Southland, to the stark natural beauties of its life .. t>n<) .. 

and soil, a life deep and strong, a soil untouched. 

"O land and soil, red soil and sweet gum-tree, May 

So scant of grass, so profligate of pines 1927 

Now just before an epoch's sun declines 

Thy son, in time, I have returned to thee, 

'Thy son, 1 have in tune returned to thee." 
Here was the Negro artist triumphantly detached from propaganda, 
sensitive only to beauty. Where Dunbar gave to the unnamed Negro peas- 
ant a reassuring touch of humanity, Toomer gave to this peasant a passionate 

{Continued on page forty-four) 

Old Mansion 

By Arna Bontemps 

Poplars are standing there still as death 
And ghosts of dead men 
Meet their ladies walking 
Two by two beneath the shade 
And standing on the marble steps. 

1 nere is a sound of music 
Echoing through the door 
And in the field there is 
Another sound tinkling in the cotton: 
Chains of bondsmen dragging on the ground. 

The years go back with an iron clank. 

A hand is on the gate, 

A dry leaf trembles on the wall. 

Ghosts are walking. 

They have broken roses down 

And poplars stand there still as death. 

-4 9 )§►••- 


By Arthur Huff Fauset 

Allegro non froppo 
Allegro vivace et caprkiosn 

The tiny village of Gum Ridge, Texas, fairly hummed under a 
sizzling white sun that mounted higher and higher in the gray-blue 
space lately traversed by the stars. Living creatures fled the exposed 
valley and sought shelter beneath the leafy branches of giant cottonwoods, 
pecans and maples that studded the sides of the towering hill which lent its 
name to the village. 

The parched fields lay desolate, looking like huge burnt carcasses, and 
brittle as dead men's bones. They listened to the dull droning of the dust 
ridden atmosphere as it quivered under the murderous lashings of the sun, 
and occasionally to the sonorous hum-m-m-m-m of a solitary bee that braved 
the death-dealing rays of heat in quest of some petalled haven. 

Far down in the blistered valley, within a wretched log cabin, Cudjo, 
brown youth of seventeen summers, raised himself drowsily from his tat- 
tered couch in a corner of the cabin. Old Ben lay sound asleep. Cudjo 
knew he was sound asleep by the noise of his snoring, harmonizing ludi- 
crously with the bzz-bzz-bzz of the giant horse-flies that frisked about the 
old man's mouth and from time to time raised huge lumps on his lips and 
the top of his bald head. 

Cudjo stretched and yawned. 

He sat down on the edge of his couch and looked about him. The cabin 
was littered with filth. Rubbish of all sorts was strewn over the floor. 
Vermin crawled from the bed clothing, from his clothes, and from the 
newspapers that adorned the walls. Sleek rats darted occasionally across 
the floor. The smothering rays of the sun, shimmering through long thin 

-4 io)§*~ 

cracks in the roof fell with a dazzling brilliance on the nauseating spectacle. 

For a moment Cudjo was filled with loathing. Although he had never 
known any other kind of existence, something within him was not reconciled 
to this slovenliness. A curious shiver coursed slowly through his body, 
starting at the base of his spine and trickling out on his lips. Under that 
burning roof he felt his teeth chattering. 

It took but a moment to put on his few fragments of clothing. Then 
he crept to the door of the shack and started to open it, but of a sudden shut 
it, exclaiming, "Damn hot .... Baptism today too .... Niggahs 
gonna do dere stuff f sho 1 in all dis heat .... Gotta be dere .... 
gotta be dere." 

In the corner Old Ben continued to snore profoundly. Cudjo observed 
him intently for an instant. 

"Oughta be up an' gittin' to de ribber, sho's yuh bo'n. Dat's his lil' red 
wagon ah reckon. Spec' ah bettah let 'urn sleep an' tek his rest. If he 
misses baptism though, be jes 1 too bad. 11 

He reached for an old black hat hanging on a nail in the door, and 
pulled it far over his face as he emerged from the cabin. 

"Wow, but it's hot, 11 he exclaimed as his bare feet trod upon the sandy 
road that felt like a bake oven. "Twarn't fo 1 de damn foolishness ah'd git 
baptize' m'se'f dis hot day .... Somepin' mattah wid mah soul right now 
an' ah knows it ... . Gotta git dis out o 1 m 1 system somehow .... 
wonder what's eatin 1 me?" 

He passed old Ebenezer Baptist Church. Standing on a small eminence 
overlooking the surrounding lands it had the appearance of a smoke -gray 
lighthouse in an ocean of heat-flame. Cudjo laughed cynically as he passed 

"All dis 'ligion ain't gittin 1 nobody nowheah. All it does, mek yo' all feel 
good. M,ek yo' feel like yo' treadin' on soft cushions in Gawd's he'b'n. 
But it ain't gittin 1 nobody nufrin, ain't gittin 1 me a damn thing. . . . Dis 
'ligion don't keep folks f'um laughin' at me 'cause ah'm difPant f'um dem. 
Don't keep White Man f'um raisin' hell anytime he feelin' dat-a-way. Jes' 
mek yo' happy, dat's all. Mek yo' damn happy .... Feel good .... 
yea bo'." 

He looked into the heavens. The sun was a whirling white streak in a 
hazy gray-blue pattern. His eyes could not stand the glare. 




1 1 &►•- 




With hands folded behind him he sauntered along as in a dream, 
thinking, thinking, unmindful of heat or shade. His eyes seemed to be 
covered with mist. They were nearly closed. 

He did not have to see. What were feet for? Did they not have ten 
eyes, as many noses, and mouths as well? There was nothing which could 
be perceived by the ordinary senses that these wonderfully trained friends 
did not discover even more readily. If he was hungry, they led him to 
patches of wild blackberries and juicy strawberries. When he was tired and 
sleepy they carried him gently over rocks and stones, avoiding pits, brambles 
and poisonous snakes. 

They knew the east from the west; the quiet lanes that led down to the 
cool refreshing brook from the steep stony paths which ascended to the 
crests of those mighty shaggy turrets that people called hills; those hills 
from whose tops he delighted to look down on the sleepy villages below and 
pretend that he was God. 

God again! 

What was all this talk about God? These niggers and their God! Fools, 
that's all they were, they and their God. 

Did they think that God gave a tinker's damn for them, they in their 
dirt\' shacks that bred scorpions, bedbugs and rats, and gave forth a stench 
that would knock down a polecat! Where was their God when White Man 
came along at the end of the harvest season and told the niggers they 
hadn't made enough cotton to pay for their grub to say nothing of their 
shelter, their clothing, their very liberty! 

And what was He doing on that hot afternoon when White Man took 
Zack Jones and riddled his body with bullets after he had been strung up 
to a big tree for being in the neighborhood when little "Miss" Dora 
suddenly took a notion it would be funny to pretend that some nigger had 
said naughty things to her? .... 

He liked to go up on Gum Ridge in the late afternoon when pale purple 
clouds hovered over the tiny villages like a hen over her brood of chicks. 
It was like being in heaven to be there and hurl a stone high in the air only 
to watch it fall on some naked roof in the white section of the village; then 
with fists clenched and arms raised in mighty exaltation to exclaim: "Damn 
yuh, when ah'm down in de valley yo' all white folks is Gawd .... Yeh 
.... ain't no mo' Gawd when ah'm down dere. But when ah gits up in 
dese pahts ah'm Gawd. . . . Hyeah me, yo' gawddamned wi'te trash .... 

-•■•§( 1 2 )§•»- 

yo' all listen to me .... ah'm Gawd .... an' one o' dese days ah 'in 
gonna baptize yo' all wif fiah an' brimstone" .... 

He arrived at the bank of the Tugaloo River, the sluggish, anemic- 
stream that mocking white folks called Lbenezer's Jordan. No other person 
was in sight. . . . Cudjo lifted himself upon the stern of a small launch 
that lay anchored near the shore, and rested there masterfully perched for 
witnessing the baptismal ceremony. 

The sickening sun smote him with its sleep-dispensing rays. He began 
to feel drowsy. A gentle mist formed over his half-closed eyes; the world 
commenced to swim from under him. 

Pictures flitted across the space in front of him, flickering glimpses of the 
same slim brown girl who seemed to dance for his pleasure and performed 
miraculous gyrations like some whirling pinwheel. In a half doze he 
mumbled to himself: "Damn .... that's Amber Lee .... sho' is 
.... Amber Lee ... . Wonder ef she be hyeh today?" 

The slim brown figure whirled round and round until it appeared as 
dazzling as the sun. Cudjo shook himself from sheer dizziness. 

"Ah got funny feelin's these days. Don't know whut's wrong wid me 
.... Ah wants t' dance an' shout .... an' raise hell in gen'ral ah 

His head nodded .... asleep .... awake .... here .... 
then .... there .... now .... dead .... alive .... just 
enough alive to feel himself crooning an old melody he had often heard 
Old Ben sing: 

"Hop right! goin' to see mah baby Lou! 
Goin' to walk an' talk wid mah honey! 
Goin' to hug an' kiss mah honey .... 
Hop right, mah baby!" 

He hopped right out of his reverie when a party of picnickers, breezing 
by in a small launch yelled out to him amidst waving of flags and handker- 
chiefs: "Hello, Cudjo! Hello, Crazy Cudjo!" 

Cudjo's arm shot out with a jovial fling, but ended with a stock gesture, 
the outstretched fingers of his right hand in close proximity to his nose as 
he yelled back: "Hope t' Gawd yo' all boat turns over!" 

There was no more chance to dream. The worshippers were coming 
down to the river; at first small straggling droves of children; soon after, 
clustered crowds of men, women and children. 



~«gf 13^- 

It was hot. The dank water of the Tugaloo smelled like a cistern 
containing an old corpse. Men and women perspired till the air was filled 
with a thick pungent odor like soppy stale salt. 

Old people looked on at the gathering crowd and said little j the young 
..<.«!,<>.• f°lk laughed and twitted each other. 

Ebenezer Baptist was on party display. Her women were clad in every 
May description of red, yellow, purple, pink, blue. Many of them wore dresses 

7927 °^ briHi ant hues woven into Egyptian patterns. They raised gay paper 

parasols and cotton umbrellas to ward off the scorching sunshine. 

Young men sported wide trousers with gaudy suspenders or broad 
brilliantly colored belts. Their belt-furrowed coats made of screaming- 
brown and blue cloth displayed a profusion of buttons some of them hanging 
from long tassel -like cords. They wore large brown and black felt hats and 
glistening derbies. 

The congregation grew thicker and noisier. Members found places on 
odd stacks of lumber that were piled up here and there on the shore; in 
rowboats which they tied together; on the roofs of sheds and outhouses. 
Some of the young bucks sat on the trestle of the railroad bridge that 
spanned the river. 

Cudjo viewed the gaudy parade with great glee. He chuckled low to 
himself and clapped his hands. "Hot-dam," he muttered half aloud, 
"gonna de big doin's in dis man's town dis yere day .... sho' is ... . 

A loud murmur emanating from the gathering throng attracted his 
attention to the bank of the river. A cry surged through the congregation. 
"Uh-uh .... hyeh dey come .... hyeh dey come . . . hyeh dey all 


Religioso Furioso 

All eyes focused on the preacher, shepherd of the flock who appeared 
leading his baptismal lambs. He was a tremendous black figure with a large 
round stomach that almost bulged out of his dark blue vest. As he waddled 
his corpulent body seemed like a huge inflated balloon made of thick rubber 
swaying upon two large resilient pillars. 

-<i 14)8h- 

He wore a white robe that was neither long enough to hide the tips of 
his blue trousers nor wide enough to cover the heavy gold watch-chain that 
circled his paunch. 

A hush came over the ever increasing throng as the preacher and two 
deacons prepared a passageway to the river for the baptismal candidates. 
In their stocking feet they waded out in the smutty brown water and drove 
two long staves about a yard apart into the soft mud. To the ends of these 
they fastened ropes which they brought back to the shore and attached to 
hooks that had been driven into some pilings on the river bank. 

The converts, dressed in white, were lined up one behind the other on 
the shore. Most of them were young girls. Their eyes were red with 
weeping. Now and then one of them sobbed and fell into the arms of a 
buxom matron who crooned old Baptist hymns in her ears. 

The preacher bustled about, imparting final instruction to his deacons 
while they waited for a tall brown man, clad in white robes, to make his 
way through the dense crowd. He was the exhorter. 
The ceremony began. 

The exhorter discarded the white cap that adorned his head and exposed 
himself to the excruciating heat. He commenced singing in a high quavering 
voice : 

"Run away, run away, 
Run away, run away, 
Ain't gonna see you any more." 
At the third "run away" the entire congregation echoed the song 
fervidly. The young candidates took this for a signal to shriek and sob. 
Their voices rent the sizzling air like screaming sirens in the black of a 
starless night. 

The exhorter continued: 

"Cry some more, cry some more, 
Cry some more, cry some more, 
Ain't gonna see you any more." 
Some one in the congregation started to sing: 

"How many done dead an' gone? 
Couldn't have religion I would not be." 
The exhorter desiring even more fervor decided that one more song 
was necessary. Soon the air rang with melody. 




-h8( 15 IS*- 



"Ain't we some angels of Jesus, some 
angels of Jesus, some angels of 
Surely He died on Calvary. 
Calvary, Calvary, 
Calvary, Calvary, 
Calvary, Calvary, 
Surely He died on Calvary." 
The singing became hysterical. Men and women cried. Some swayed 
their bodies from right to left; some leapt into the air; others shook them- 
selves like coarse dancers in a burlesque theatre. 

Crescendo, crescendo, crescendo. Mighty roar of an ocean tumult. 
Thunder. Tumult of song that challenges the listening heavens. 
"Calvary, Calvary, 
Calvary, Calvary, 
Calvary . . . . " 
As if by signal the torrent of song diminishes in volume and velocity; 
step by step, pitch by pitch it diminishes. Nothing remains but a gentle soft 
crooning that seems like the pattering of raindrops on the leaves after a 

The crooning stops abruptly. The soft voice of the big black preacher 
wafts its way soothingly over the congregation like an evening lullaby. 

"Come on chillun, da's 'nough now .... chillun .... Gawd done 
hyerd yo' all ... . Gawd sho' hyerd his white lambs dat time .... 
Now we gwine ha' prayer by Brother Simpson." 

Brother Simpson stepped out from the throng. He threw his battered 
straw hat on the muddy bank and flung his long black arms towards the 
sunlit heavens. He spoke slowly at first in low tones that were scarcely 
audible above the quiet murmuring that wrapped itself around the devout 
worshippers like a soft blanket. 
He prays. 

"Oh Lawd . . . . dis is a prayer to you . . . . dis is a prayer to m' 
Father in heaven, oh Lawdy Jesus .... yas .... yas .... Done 
turn mah face to de jasper walls so's you kin see de he'b'nly sunshine in mah 
eyes .... Oh Lawdy Jesus .... done renounce de flesh an' de 

His prayer grows warmer and warmer. He punctuates each fervent plea 
with a deep gasp resembling a suffocating man struggling for air. 

-"$ 16 )§•••■- 

"Oh, Lawd .... Lawdy, u-n-n, hab mercy on dis po' creature of 
yours, u-n-n, hab mercy on dis thy humble servant, u-n-n .... oh Lawd, 
deliber us, u-n-n, f'um de debil's wiles, u-n-n .... an holy Lawd Jesus, 
u-n-n, watch fo' us, u-n-n, an' pray, u-n-n, fo' us, u-n-n, that we be not led, 
u-n-n, into de temptation ob de wilderness, u-n-n, and fall beneath de 
prickly feet of dat wicked devil, u-n-n . . . . " 

The deacon exhorts. He cajoles and laments. He pants, sings, groans, 
and croons. Great clouds of steam fall from his face .... 

At first the congregation with heads bowed listen in a rhapsody of 
terror and exaltation. After a little while they too shout and scream as the 
deacon denounces the wickedness of the devil and depicts the horrors of hell. 

From time to time the preacher dips down into the muddy stream with 
his hands and brings up water to bathe the head of the sweltering deacon 
and his own as well. After each application he emits a shrill laugh whose 
fiendish notes resound on the stifling atmosphere like the midnight cries of 
a panicky jungle cat. 

The prayer is ended. 

The congregation breaks into spontaneous song. Bodies sway to left 
and right. Body touches body. A corporate thrill passes through the entire 

Spontaneous song. 

"Oh Lord, thy will be done. 
Oh Lord, thy will be done. 
Our Father which art in heaven, 
Hallowed be thy name, 
Thy kingdom come, 
Thy will be done, 
Oh Lord, thy will be done." 

No one was more affected than Cudjo. The scoffer could not help 
himself. Emotion overcame reason. 

He laughed and shouted. Tears streamed from his eyes. He pranced 
in the air, slapping his thighs with the palms of his hands, while his lithe 
body bent and swayed to the rhythm of the songs. 

He sang with tears in his eyes and throat, as if his heart brimmed over 
with heavenly moisture. Like a drunken man he was reeling in an orgy 
of emotional rapture, drowning in a warm, rich, overwhelming flood of 
sensual experience. 





An ominous grin spread over his entire countenance. Again his eyes 
seemed covered with mist. He scarcely knew where or who he was. 

Uneasiness crept over the members of the congregation who stood near 

The preacher called for the candidates. Single file they marched through 
the passageway that led to the living water. 

The first was a tender child of fifteen years. She tugged and fought 
with the leaders as they led her to the stream. Under the scathing sun 
energies soon fagged and good humors vanished. The preacher was sorely 
tried. He was now calling out constantly to the congregation to restrain 
their zeal. Finally he looked in the direction of Cudjo and screamed, "If 
any yo' all niggahs cain't behave yo'se'ves hyeh, yuh kin git out right now 
.... any you niggahs!" 

Water on a duck's back. Cudjo clapped his hands and laughed the 

Religious frenzy gave strength to the young candidate. It took two 
deacons and the preacher to immerse her. One took her by the arms while 
the other two each grasped a struggling ankle. For a moment, the congre- 
gation looked on in tense silence. 

The silence became a dumb shudder. Even the struggling girl, sus- 
pended in mid-air, looked on in dumb wonder as Cudjo rushed down 
through the surprised throng, and leaping over the ropes made as if to 
snatch her from the arms of her preceptors. The perspiration gleamed on 
his face. The muscles of his arms bulged as he tried to tear the girl from 
the grasp of the amazed preacher. 

"You black devil," he shouted to the holy emissary, "you'se a sinner an 1 
a hypocrite. Take yo' orn'ny hands f'um off'n her .... De voice ob 
Gawd speakin' th'oo de clouds f'm he'b'n .... Hyeah me now, hyeah 
me ... . John de black Baptis', he hyeh now tellin' me to do all dis 
.... Yo' all baptize wid water but ah baptize. ..." He got no further. 


Cries of "Lawd ha' mercy, oh Lawd-Gawd, save us ... . save us 
f'um dis debil!" 

The candidate still hung suspended in mid-air, the preacher, two dea- 
cons, and Cudjo grasping some part of her. She had fainted and lay lifeless 
in their hands. 


Mad fury swept over the congregation. The baptism was suddenly 
converted into a scene of near carnage. 

"Kill him, kill him, kill the black fool!" they all shouted. 

Cudjo held on and laughed fiendishly. They swarmed around him and 
started to crush and pummel him. For a moment he was certain to be 
crushed to death, but the saner preacher, recovering from his surprise, 
released the girl and rushed at Cudjo from behind. A dozen stalwart dea- 
cons came to his assistance. From the hysterical circle of women and chil- 
dren, flaying him with umbrellas and pelting him with missiles, the outraged 
deacons bore him clear through the throng out into the open. 

Up the banks they ran dragging the interrupter with them. Finally they 
rushed behind a clump of tall bushes many yards from the scene of the 
baptism. They lifted Cudjo into the air as if he were an outcast devil, and 
hurled him as far as they were able. 

Solemnly they watched him fall into a senseless heap. Then breathless 
and tired they made their way back to calm the awe-struck candidates and 
to resume the baptism. 




Agitato appassionato 

Smorzando et tranquillo 

Cudjo landed in a thick patch of dry grass. The sudden impact stunned 
him but aside from painful bruises, he was none the worse for his wild 

The merciless rays of the sun beating down upon him seemed more 
cruel than the scourging crowd, and he crawled to the clump of bushes 
grateful for some shade and shelter. There he sat on the hot grass nursing 
the muscles of his legs. Down by the river he could hear soft music 
crooned by the congregation, and the rhythmic tread of feet patting on the 

Gradually the energy of youth returned. He laughed aloud. He looked 
at his bare feet, burned almost black by the sun; then at his soiled hands. 
He clapped them together and kicked his heels as high as his sore calves 
would permit. 

{Continued on page forty-nine) 

-4 19)&"- 



By Helene Johnson 

To climb a hill that hungers for the sky, 

To dig my hands wrist deep in pregnant earth, 

To watch a young bird, veering, learn to fly, 
To give a still, stark poem shining birth. 

To hear the rain drool, dimpling, down the drain 
And splash with a wet giggle in the street, 

To ramble in the twilight after supper, 

And to count the pretty faces that you meet. 

To ride to town on trolleys, crowded, teaming 

With joy and hurry and laughter and push and sweat- 
Squeezed next a patent-leathered Negro dreaming 
Of a wrinkled river and a minnow net. 

To buy a paper from a breathless boy, 

And read of kings and queens in foreign lands, 

Hyperbole of romance and adventure, 

All for a penny the color of my hand. 

To lean against a strong tree's bosom, sentient 

And hushed before the silent prayer it breathes, 

To melt the still snow with my seething body 

And kiss the warm earth tremulous beneath. 

Ah, Life, to let your stabbing beauty pierce me 

And wound me as we did the studded Christ, 

To grapple with you, loving you too fiercely, 

And to die bleeding — consummate with Life. 

~«gf 20 )§*- 

The Hunch 

3y Eulalie Spence 


Mrs. Reed 



Scene. Harlem. (The living room in Mrs. Reed's apartment. Mavis 
rents this room for considerably more than she can afford. There is a day 
bed, a gate-leg table, a wing chair with its summer cover, two small chairs 
and an old book-case. The floor is covered with a gaily-colored fibre rug. 
At the left there are two windows with attractive ruffled curtains of cream 
voile. At the back a door opens upon the hall. Another door at the right 
leads into a bedroom. The door of a closet at the back is wide open, reveal- 
ing several dresses on hangers. Pretty undergarments are lying about on 
chairs. Two pairs of new shoes are on the table. Several light summer wraps 
and sweaters are lying across the foot of the bed. Occupying a prominent 
place in the foreground is a wardrobe trunk partly packed.) 

Time: Evening in summer. 

At rise: (Mavis Cunningham is seen packing her trunk. She singJ 
softly as she goes leisurely about her work. 

Everybody loves mah baby, but mah baby 
Doan love nobody but me — 
Her graceful figure is enveloped in a lemon-colored smock with a loose 
black tie at the bosom. Her black hair is drawn smoothly back from her 
forehead. There is a soft prettiness about her, a joyousness in her step, a 
smile hovering about her lips.) 

Mavis. [Going up to the mirror 
which hangs between the windows and 
holding an evening dress up against her 
body. She nods approval at her reflec- 
tion.'] Not so bad, Honey. Not so bad. 

[There is a knock on the door at the 
right. Mavis calls, "Come in!" Mrs. 
Reed waddles in. Her short, stout figure 
is encased in a pink crepe dress very 
much shorter than she can afford to 

-«e(2i fr- 


wear it, and sleeveless. She flops into the 
wing chair as soon as Mavis has rescued 
two pretty hats.] 

Mrs. Reed. Well! Yuh pretty near 
packed, ain't yuh? 

Mavis. Almost! Did yuh go to the 

Mrs. Reed. Yeah. Seen "The Volga 
Boatman." The place was jes' jammed. 

Mavis. Like it? 

Mrs. Reed. Yeah, pretty good. Say, 
them poor Russians warn't treated no 
better'n niggers, was they? 

Mavis. Not a bit. 

Mrs. Reed. When'd yuh see de 

Mavis. Couple uh weeks ago at the 
Strand. Bert took me. 

Mrs. Reed. [Enviously.] Bert 
Jackson's a reg'lar daddy, ain't he? 

Mavis. [With a smile.] Say, you 
don't have to tell me. 

Mrs. Reed. Reckon yuh knows it 
well 'nuff, seein' yuh's gwine tuh marry 
him ter-morrow. Say! Yuh doan seem 
de leas' bit excited. 

Mavis. Mebbe outside, I ain't Mis' 
Reed. But inside everything's jes' sing- 
in' an' jumpin'. I can't hardly keep 

Mrs. Reed. Ah sure doan blame 
yuh none. Ah knows jes' how yuh 

Mavis. I feel a little scared like, too. 
'Tain't that I'm lonesome. I ain't lone- 
some, really, only every once in a while 
I get tuh thinkin' 'bout Mom an' my 
sister, Helen, back home in Raleigh. 
I didn't write 'em 'bout my gettin' mar- 
ried 'till yesterday. Yuh know, Mis' 
Reed, there's a plenty things can happen 
tuh break up a weddin', 'specially in 

Mrs. Reed. Yuh ain't tellin' me! 

Mavis. An' so I waited 'till the very 
last minute when I was sure. 

Mrs. Reed. Yuh done jes' right. 
Yuh can't be sure uh no man dese days, 

'till yuh's got the weddin' ring on yuh 
finger. Reckon thar ain't nuthin' slow 
'bout Bert Jackson, neither. Bet thar's 
a plenty women chasin' him, right now. 

Mavis. Well, he's mine. They're 
not goin' tuh get him. 

Mrs. Reed. Yuh ain't knowed him 
long, has yuh? 

Mavis. Only four weeks. 

Mrs. Reed. Well, that's pretty 
quick, sure 'nuff, but Ah's heard tell 
uh quicker. It doan do no good tuh 
keep 'em hangin' too long. Whut's be- 
come uh dat feller uster follow yuh 
round? De one yuh was alius duckin'? 

Mavis. Steve? Oh, Steve's alright, 
only he ain't the kind of feller I could 
ever love. He knows I'm to marry 
Bert. I told him yesterday. Say! That 
reminds me! You know that long dis- 
tance call I got last night from Philly 
— well, 'twas Steve! He call me up 
tuh ask me tuh put a number in fer 
him. Can yuh beat it? I didn't even 
know he was outer town. The money 
that boy wastes on numbers sure is a sin. 

Mrs. Reed. Did yuh play it fer him? 

Mavis. Oh, sure, this morning. 
Guess! He asked me to put it in at two 
different places — fifty cents each. 
Steve's bin playin' that number more'n 
a month, dollar a day, sometimes two. 
He hopped over to Philly yesterday an' 
forgot tuh put it in. Said he couldn't 
trust nobody else tuh do it, only me. 
Yuh know, Mis' Reed, if yuh don't 
hand these agents the money, 'forehand 
yuh ain't got no kick comin' when 
they don't pay yuh. 

Mrs. Reed. Well, yuh might uh 
tole me de number. 'Sposin" it had er 

Mavis. Steve's numbers don't never 
come. He ain't got no luck. He's a 
fool wastin' all that money. 

Mrs. Reed. Ef he keeps it up, 
Honey, it's bound tuh come some time. 
It's when yuh drops 'em that dey comes 

-4 22 }§»•- 

right out. Whut number's Steve playin'? 

Mavis. 271. 

Mrs. Reed. [With a shriek.} What? 
271? My Gawd! Woman yuh's crazy! 
Crazy in love! Nutty! 

Mavis. Why, what's the matter? 

Mrs. Reed. [Angrily.] You stan' 
thar an' tell me yuh (loan know 271 hit 

Mavis. [In a dazed fashion.'] 271 ? 
But — Yuh's sure, Mis' Reed? 

Mrs. Reed. [Exasferat ed. ] Sure! 
Ef you ain't crazy Ah'd lak ter know! 
Ain't half uh Harlem seen it written 
on de sidewalks? Ain't yuh seen it in 
front uh Joe's? 

Mavis. [Humbly.] I forgot to look. 

Mrs. Reed. How much yuh had on 
it fer yuhself ? 

Mavis. [Shaking her head.] Nothin'. 
I doan play 'em no more. Bert's an 
agent, but I doan never play. I ain't 
got no luck. I played fifty cents with 
Bert fer Steve. 

Mrs. Reed. Well! Ef you ain't a 
fool. Livin' right here in de house wid 
me an' never sayin' a word tuh me. We 
coulda cleaned up! 

Mavis. Yuh was sleepin' when I 
went out this mornin'. Gee! What a 
shame ! 

Mrs. Reed. [Dropping her voice to 
a confidential tone.] Say! Ah hope yuh 
ain't fool 'nuff tuh han' over all dat 
money ter Steve. 

Mavis. [Quite taken back by the 
other's suggestion.] But — but — Why, 
yes, Miss Reed. What yuh mean? It 
ain't my money. It belongs tuh Steve. 

Mrs. Reed. [Angrily.] Like hell, 
it does — not! He didn't put dat money 
right in yuh han', did he? No! Well, 
he ain't got nuthin' tuh back up his 
case with. How he's gwine prove yuh 
put dat number in? Yuh'd be a darned 
fool not tuh put dat money in yuh 
pocket. Didn't yuh tell me t'other night 
yuh ain't got a cent? Thar ain't no- 

buddy knows 'bout dis hut in.-, an' fer 
fifty bucks mah mouf'd stay shut de 
rest uh mah days. Whut yuh say? 

Mavis. [Shaking her head firmly. \ 
Nothin' doin'! I ain't never played no 
skin game, yet! It's crooked, that's 

Mrs. Reed. [With withering scorn. \ 
Crooked! Say, who yuh think plays (lis 
game on de level, anyhow: Dis ain't 
no square sjame. Everybuddv knows 
dat ! 

Mavis. 'Tain't no use talkin', Mis' 
Reed. That money belong tuh Steve. 
He'll be lucky enough if he can collect 
off them fly bankers. That's all I'm 
worryin' 'bout. 

Mrs. Reed. [Incredulously.] Yuh'd 
pass up five hundred — an' you gwine 
ter git married an' ain't got no money? 

Mavis. [Stubbornly.] I couldn't he- 
happy knowjn' I'd done Steve outa that 
money. He's always treated me on the 
level, an' he said he couldn't trust no- 
body but me tuh put that number in. 
Well, that's that! I'm only hopin' them 
bankers pay off. [The door bell rings.] 

Mrs. Reed. Downstairs! Door's 
open. Well, Ah's gotta see dat money 
in Steve Collins' own han' 'fore Ah be- 
lieves yuh could be such a fool. [In 
anszver to a loud knock, Mavis opens the 
door. A very dark man enters, carrying 
a brief-case. He is short and somewhat 
stout. His clothes are flashy, his manner 
breezy. He nods in the direction of 
Mrs. Reed and then turns towards 

Mavis. [Performing a necessary in- 
troduction.] Mrs. Reed, meet Mr. 
Mitchell. Mr. Mitchell, my landlady. 

Mitchell. Delighted! 

Mrs. Reed. Pleased, Ah'm sure! 

Mitchell. [To Mavis.] Well! 
Ah thought yuh'd be phonin' me long 
'fore now. What's the matter? You 
doan look the least bit excited. Five 
cents ain't so bad, but fifty — Whew! 




~«g{ 23 js— 




Some haul, Ah'll tell the world! Only 
had a nickel on it mahself! Well, 
Mavis, yuh can't say Ah ain't treated 
yuh right. [He ofens the brief case 
and puts a 'package of money on the 
table. There are several small bills, but 
the greater fart of the money is in small 
coins. Mrs. Reed's eyes almost pop out 
of her head. ] 

Mavis. It's awful good of you tuh 
bring it up so soon, Mitchell. 

Mitchell. Well, Ah doan grudge 
that boy nuthin'. He's bin plungin' fer 
more'n two months. Steve's game! 
Yuh shoulda put somethin' on it yuh- 
self, Mavis. That's what Ah always 
do. Only a little, yuh know, but it 

Mrs. Reed. Did many people hit? 

Mitchell. Naw. Hardly anybody 
hit. That number weren't no favorite. 
It sure s'prise me Steve stuck tuh it so 
long. Well, yuh can't never tell. 

Mrs. Reed. All de bankers payin' 
off on 271? 

Mitchell. Sure! Why? 

Mrs. Reed. Oh, nuthin'. 

Mitchell. [To Mavis.] So yuh's 
goin' tuh get hitched ter-morrow? 

Mavis. Yes. Wish me luck, Mitch. 

Mitchell. All the luck in the 
world, kid! Bert's a lucky guy! 

Mrs. Reed. [With a sigh.] Ah had 
a dream last night. Wish Ah knowed 
how tuh play it. 

Mitchell. Why'nt yuh see Aunt 
Sally? If she can't tell yuh straight, 
nobuddy kin. 

Mrs. Reed. She ain't bin tellin' me 
straight fer some time. Reckon Ah 
needs another dream book. 

Mitchell. There ain't none like 
Sally. What'd yuh dream? 

Mrs. Reed. Ah dream Ed an' me — 
Ed's mah fus husband' — Ah dream Ed 
an' me was lyin' in bed — 

Mitchell. Is he dead? 

Mrs. Reed. Bin dead five years. 

Mitchell. That's 9. 

Mrs. Reed. The door opened an' 
in walks Joe, mah secon' husban' — 
Lookin' mad tuh kill. 

Mitchell. ■ Is he dead, too? 

Mrs. Reed. Yeah. Died las' year. 

Mitchell. That's 2. Your num- 
ber's 295. Play the combination an' 
yuh can't lose. 

Mrs. Reed. Well, mebbe Ah'd bet- 
ter. [She opens her purse, counts out 
some change and hands it to Mitchell 
who writes out a slip, gives her the 
original and pockets the duplicate.] 

Mitchell. Guess Ah'll be hoppin' 
along. Got plenty stops tuh make. 
Anything fer you, Mavis? 

Mavis. Not ter-night, Mitch. 

Mitchell. Well, s'long! [He goes 
out giving the door a breezy slam.] 

Mrs. Reed. Reckon Ah' oughta 
played one above an' one below — 296 
an' 294. Mis' Hawley tole me las' 
night dat's how she come tuh hit. 
Played one above an' one below. [She 
sighs deeply.] Well, mebbe it won't 
come, nohow. Mah luck sho is gone 
back on me. [Going up to the table 
and staring enviously at the little pile 
of money.] Gee! It doan seem right 
dat we ain't gettin' a cent outa all dat 
money! Yuh won't take mah advice, 
Mavis, but yuh'll be sorry. See ef yuh 
ain't. [The door bell rings.] 

Mavis. [Joyously.] Mebbe it's Bert! 
[She runs to the mirror and gives her 
hair a few hasty pats. There is a 
knock on the door and Mrs. Reed opens 
it to admit Bert Jackson. He is a tall 
thick-set fellow, rather good-looking in 
a heavy sort of way. His straight black 
hair is slicked to his head and highly 
polished. He scowls slightly as he sees 
Mrs. Reed.] 

Mrs. Reed. Come right in, Mr. 
Jackson ! 

Bert. [To Mrs. Reed.] Hello! Hot 
enough for you? [He strides past her, 

-"•Bf 24 ►- 

takes Mavis in his arms and kisses her 
twice. ] 

Mrs. Reed. [Admiringly.] Yuh's 

some shiek, ain't yuh! 

Mavis. [Laughing. | What's the 
matter, Mis' Reed? Jealous? 

Mrs. Reed. Who, me? [Mavis 
nods.] Don't yuh believe it, Honey! 
Dis baby gets all de lovin' she ran 
stand and doan yuh ferget it! 

Bert. [To Mavis.] I see you're 
almost through packing. 

Mavis. Almost! 

Bert. [As he catches sight of the 
money on the table.] Hello! Look at 
the coin! Somebody's rich around here! 

Mrs. Reed. [Fervently.] Ah wish 
tuh Gawd we was! 

Mavis. It's Steve's money. Mitchell 
was up an' paid off! 

Bert. Say, Mavis! I've had the 
devil's own luck! 

Mavis. [Very much concerned.] 
Why Bert, what happened? Sit down 
an' tell me. 

Bert. There's nothing hurts me 
more'n a hard luck story. You know 
that slip I wrote* Steve's number on? 
Well would you believe it, when I got 
to Miller's this morning, I found I 
didn't have Steve's slip! Hunted every- 
where! Called up home and my land- 
lady couldn't find it neither. Well then 
I called you and the operator said the 
line was busy. 

Mavis. [Slowly.] An' — an' — you 
didn't remember it, Bert? Yuh mighta 
remembered, when I only told yuh one 

Bert. Gimme a chance, will you 
Honey? That's just what I tried to 
do! Neah as I could remember, it was 
217. I remember the figures, but I 
clean forgot how you had 'em fixed! 

Mavis. [In dismay.] An' yuh didn't 
play nuthin'? Yuh mighta played the 
combination, Bert! 

Bert. That's just what 1 did do! 
T put a dime on each. Of course 1 
never had an idea 271 would hit! Too 
bad! I might have had something on 
it, myself! [He takes a small roll of 
hills from his pocket and hands it to 
Mavis.] Here you arc! Sixty-seven to 
the good! 

Mrs. Reed. Ah know it's de truth! 
[Bert gives her an icy look.] 

Mavis. It's too bad 'bout that slip, 
Bert! I can't see how yuh come tuh 
lose it! Reckon Stevc'll be sore. 

Bert. [Lighting a cigarette.} Steve 
ain't got no kick comin'. He's done 
pretty well, I should say! 

Mrs. Reed. 'Deed he has! Ah was 
jes' tellin' Mavis, she's a fool handin' 
over all dat money tuh Steve. 

Bert. Say, Mavis, how much did 
Steve make, anyhow? 

Mavis. Oh, I don't know. I haven't 

Mrs. Reed. Mr. Mitchell paid off 
on fifty cents, an' you jes' paid off on 
a dime. 

Bert. Steve ain't got no kick com- 
ing. I say, Mrs. Reed, I'd like to speak 
to Mavis alone. 

Mrs. Reed. [Pulling her huge body 
slowly out of the arm chair.] Ah get 
yuh! Ah jes' drop in fer a minute, 
anyhow. Thought Mavis might need 
some help with 'er packin'. See vuh 
in de mornin', Mavis. 

Bert. Good-night! [He turns away 
impatiently , and Mrs. Reed withdraws 
with a last lingering look at the money 
on the table.]. Darned old busy-bodv! 
Wonder if she planned to stay here all 

Mavis. She doan mean no harm, 
Bert. Let's ferget 'bout her! [She 
pulls him down on the couch beside 
her and kisses him.] Tell me somethin', 
Bert. I'm dyin' tuh know! 

Bert. [Returning her kisses with in- 
terest.] What? 


-«( 25 )•>•- 



Mavis. Where we goin', Bert? Yuh 
ain't tole me no plans. 

Bert. An' I ain't telling you none, 
neither. Didn't I say it was going to 
be a surprise? 

Mavis. But Bert — 

Bert. We're going to a little place 
in Jersey. Now, don't ask me where, 
for I ain't telling you. 

Mavis. Plenty colored people? 

Bert. Nothing different! Wouldn't 
go no place else. 

Mavis. It ain't Asbury Park? Atlan- 
tic City? 

Bert. I said a little place, didn't I? 

Mavis. Anyway, I'm goin' tuh love 
it. How long we goin' tuh stay, Bert? 

Bert. A week, maybe two weeks, 
if you like it. 

Mavis. I'll love it! But Bert, what 
about my trunk? I doan know where 
tuh send it. 

Bert. I'll send a feller for it first 
thing in the morning. He'll have a 
label ready. Don't worry. This is my 
surprise, and I ain't goin' to have it 
spoiled. Are you through packing? 

Mavis. I doan need tuh do no more 

Bert. Come on, then. Let's beat it. 
I'm hungry. 

Mavis. Where we goin', Bert? 

Bert. Any place you say. How's 
Bamboo Inn? 

Mavis. Suits me! [She jumps up 
just as the door bell rings. ] I wonder 
if that's fer me? 

Bert. Ain't you had enough callers 
for one evening? 

Mavis. Well, I ain't stay in' in fer 

Bert. Maybe it's Steve coming to 
bank his money. Wonder what took 
him to Philadelphia? He didn't say, 
did he? 

Mavis. Important business, he said. 
[In answer to a knock on the door, 
Mavis admits Steve Collins. Steve is a 

slender brown skinned fellow with an 
appealing s?nile and a happy-go-lucky 
manner. His smile undergoes a percep- 
tible change as he looks from Mavis to 

Steve. Hello, Mavis! [He nods 
coolly in Bert's direction.'] Thought I'd 
find you here, but I wasn't sure. 

Mavis. Well, I suppose yuh's heard 
the good news, Steve? 

Steve. Meanin' 27 1 ? 

Mavis. Yes. 

Steve. Gotta thank you fer that, 
kid. I met Mitchell on the way here 
an' he told me he'd bin up .... You 
know what, Mavis, when I left Philly 
this evenin' I was dead broke. 

Mavis. Poor old Steve. 

Steve. Poor, nothin'! I've got five 
hundred dollars to the good, kid — 
thanks to you! I ain't likely to ferget 
that in a long time. 

Mavis. [Unhappily.] Steve — I — I 
got somethin' tuh tell yuh. 

Steve. Wait a minute! I got tuh 
tell you somethin', too. Bet yuh doan 
know what took me down tuh Philly? 

Mavis. No! 

Sieve. [To Bert.] Give a guess! 

Bert. Can't imagine! What? 

Steve. I had a hunch, see? An' I 
followed it! I never yet passed up a 
hunch. No Sir! Well,' I had a hunch 
'bout somethin' an' it led me straight 
tuh Philly an' I come across somethin' 
that near knocked me silly! Wait a 
minute an' I'll show yuh! [He opens 
the hall door, returning almost immedi- 
ately with a rather plump light-skinned 
young woman. She flashes a curious 
look at Mavis and a mocking one at 
Bert. Without waiting for an invita- 
tion she sits rather heavily, at the same 
time depositing a small overnight bag 
on the floor.] 

Lucinda. Excuse me. I couldn't 
stand another minute. Guess you better 
introduce me, Mr. Collins. 

-h§{ 26 }8*~ 

Steve. Mavis, this is Mis' Bert 

Lucinda. Pleased to meet you, I'm 
sure. [Mavis ofens her month to sfeak 
but no sound comes.] 

Steve. Reckon yuh (loan need no 
introduction tub vuh own, WW 

Lucinda. Well, Bert, vow sure don't 
look overjoyed to see me. 

Mavis. [Running uf to Bert and 
clutching his arm.] It ain't true! 
Why'nt yuh give her the He, Bert? 
Say it ain't true! [But Bert does not 
answer. Mavis' hand jails to her side. 
She sways slightly and grasps at a chair 
for support. Steve holds out his hand 
to her but she draws sharply away.] 

Lucinda. Fer Gawd's sake let's be 
sensible an' cut out all the fancy acting! 
[To Bert.] You oughta be caged, no 
foolin'! This ain't the first time you've 
tried this stuff, but it's the last time 
I'm gonna bother savin' you. You 
oughta be jailed, no foolin'! Ain't they 
got women enough in Harlem, without 
you staging another one of these fake 
weddings? I oughta let them send you 
up fer bigamy, I sure oughta! 

Mavis. Bert, it ain't true! Say it 
ain't true! [Her voice fails suddenly 
on a sob.] 

Lucinda. Say, I'm sorry fer you, 
kid, but it's all in the game. You ain't 
got nothing to cry about, take it from 
me! Bert is a no-good skunk if ever 
there was one. Mr. Collins here would 
make a dozen Berts with plenty left 
over to spare. He paid me fifty dollars 
to come over here an' put you wise. 
Bert ain't all there, if you ask me ... . 
Well, I'm going, Mr. Collins. Guess 
there ain't nothing else I can do around 

Steve. Don't you want tuh take 
along yuh daddy? 

Lucinda. Be your age! [She looks 
kindly down at the weeping Mavis.] 


kid, hi 
■ushing ; 


» husband. Take it 
from me! I didn't pick no daisy, I'll 

tell the world' [ With a final look of 
contempt in Bert's direction, Lucinda 
goes out. Steve looks from Bert to 
Mavis and hack again 'to Bert. The 
latter appears to hare recovered his poise 
now that his better half has departed. 
He takes a menacing step toward Steve. | 

Bert. I'll get you for this, you 
dirty sneak! Get outa here, quick, 'fore 
I knock you clean through that win- 

Steve. [Derisively.] I doan believe 
yuh, but say it again. 

BERT. Clear out, I tell you! 

Steve. Suppose we put it up tuh 

Mavis. [Springing to her feet.] 
Get out, both of yuh! 

Bert. Lemme stay, Mavis. You 
ain't gimme no chance to set things 
ritiht. I gotta explain — 

^Mavis.^ [Hotly.] Yuh had yuh 
chance tuh explain an' yuh didn't take 
it! Now beat it, both of yuh! 

Steve. I'll go, Mavis. I know yuh's 
sore at what I done, but I couldn't a' 
done no different. I knowed Bert 
weren't on the level. 

Mavis. How'd yuh know so much? 
Yuh never tole me nothin'! 

Steve. Swell chance I woulda had 
makin' you believe. Well, I had a 
hunch an' a feller give me a tip 'bout 
goin' tuh Philly. 

Bert. [Savagely.] What feller — 

Steve. Roy Davis — a feller yuh 
done outa some number money. Well, 
he had it in fer you an' squealed, that's 

Bert. Davis lied. I ain't never done 
nobody outa no money. 

Steve. Well, I ain't got no kick 
coming 'long as yuh comes across with 
my dough. [He walks to the table.] 
This my winnings, Mavis? 


■°4 27 }3— 


Mavis. Yes. That's what was give 
me. Mitchell paid up on fifty cents, 
but Bert said he lost yuh slip an' couldn't 
remember the number. He only played 
the combination for ten cents. 

Steve. [In a low voice.} But yuh 
gave him the fifty cents? Yuh seen him 
write down the number? 

Mavis. Yes. I got my duplicate. 

Steve. Yuh doan believe he lost 
that slip, do yuh, Mavis. [Mavis does 
not answer but walks to the window and 
looks out into the night. Bert walks up 
to her and tries to take her hand but 
she refulses him.~\ 

Bert. You know I ain't no thief, 
don't you, Mavis? [A low laugh breaks 
from Steve who has backed up against 
the door and drawn a revolver. Bert 
whirls angrily about to find himself 
being covered by Steve's weapon.} 

Steve. Put up yuh hands an' be 
damned quick about it! [Bert hesitates, 
looking at Mavis.} Up with 'em or by 
Gawd! I'll rip yuh pockets open with 
the first shot! [Bert pits his hands up.} 
Now, Mavis look through his pockets! 
[Mavis hesitates.} I got a hunch that 
money's layin right in his pocket. [Still 
Mavis does not move.} Hold this gun, 
Mavis, an' I'll do the lookin'. Yuh 
owes it to him, Mavis, to prove that I'm 
wrong. [Very reluctantly, Mavis takes 
the gun from Steve and keeps it aimed 
at Bert, while Steve looks through the 
latter' s pockets.} 

Bert. Drop that gun, Mavis. I'm 
being robbed! [Suddenly Steve holds 
up a roll of bills.} 

Steve. [Triumphantly.} I knew 

Bert. That's mine! That's my 
money ! 

Steve. [ Taking the gun from Mavis 
and handing her the money.} Count it! 

Bert. [In a choked voice.} I'll get 
you for this! I'll get you for this! 

Steve. [Coldly.} Next time yuh 
see me yuh'd better run! How much, 
Mavis ? 

Mavis. A hundred an' eighty-three 

Steve. Put it on the table. [She 
obeys.} Now, you skip along, big boy, 
an' watch yuh step! Try any funny 
business an' yuh friends'll be playin' 
yuh hearse number 'fore the week's out. 
Keep outa my way, an' doan lemme see 
yuh hangin' round Mavis! [Without 
another word, Bert slinks out of the 
room. Steve returns the revolver to his 
pocket. He goes up to the table, takes 
up several bills and thrusts them into his 
pocket. Mavis watches him in silence.} 

Steve. [Cheerfully.} Fifty-fifty! 
I've got mine, Mavis, and here's yours. 
Better put it away. 

Mavis. [Bitterly.} Think I'd touch 
a cent of it? 

Steve. Well, why not? Half's yours. 
Say, who played this number for me, 

Mavis. I wouldn' touch a cent. I 
had enough trouble 'bout that money. 
Pick it up an' clear out. 

Steve. [With a grin.} Can't do 
either one. The money's yours an' I 
ain't gonna leave yuh here tuh cry yuh 
eyes out. Nothin' doin'! 

Mavis. [Fiercely.} You done it all ! 
You spoiled everything! Yuh think I 
hate Bert, doan yuh? Well, I don't, 
see? I love him! 

Steve. [Incredulously.} You love 
him now, knowin' everything? 

Mavis. Yes, an' hate you. 

Steve. Alright. If yuh love him 
go ahead an' have him. His wife doan 
care none. I wasn't gonna see him put 
anything over on you, that's all .... 
Gawd, but you wimmen 'er queer! 

[Mavis slips out of her smock. She 
puts on her hat and takes her pocket- 
book. Steve watches her miserably.} 

-hK 28 )§►•- 

Steve. Where yuh goin', Mavis? 
Mavis. To hell, fer all I care! 
Steve. [Instantly more cheerful. \ 
Come on. I'm with yuh. 

Mavis. I ain't gonna stand much 
more from you. Clear nut, I tell yuh! 
Steve. Nix. You're up against it, 
kid, that's why yuh feel that way. How 
do I know? Say, my head ain't all 
wood! Ain't I bin up against it too, 
pretty near all my life? I like yuh, 
kid. Honest. First time I saw yuh I 
knew yuh was on the level. I wouldn't 
a' butted in if I hadn't knowed yuh 
was on the level. 

Mavis. Wish I'd never seen yuh! 
I shoulda lied 'bout puttin' in that num- 
ber an' gyped all, jes' like Bert was 
gyping some. 

Steve. You couldn't do it kid. 
'Sides yuh didn't need tuh. Half that 
money goes tuh you anyway. 

Mavis. I wouldn't touch a cent! 
Steve. Bet yuh ain't got a cent? 
Spent all gettin' clothes fer yuh wed- 

Mavis. Yuh mind yuh own business. 
Steve. Bet yuh ain't got nothin' tuh 
pay yuh room rent. 

Mavis. I wish tuh Gawd I'd never 
seen yuh! 

Steve. Well, yuh can't help it. Yuh 
did see me. [Hopefully.} Say, yuh 
wouldn't marry me instead 'er Bert, 
would yuh ? 

Mavis. [With withering scorn.] 
You doan hate yuhself, do yuh? 

Steve. Well, alright. Now get this. 
Yuh's plannin' tuh stay in here an' cry 
yuh eyes out. Mrs. Reed'll know yuh's 
bin jilted an' ain't got no money. 

Mavis. It ain't none 'er \o' busi- 
ness ! 

Steve. Or mebbe yuh's plannin' tuh 
go tuh Bert, anyhow, 'spite uh what he's 
done tuh yuh. 

Mavis. It ain't none uh yo' business, 
what I'm plannin' tuh do! 

[Grimly.] I'i 

him, so help me Gawd! [Mc 
up startled. A pleading note replaces the 
sternness in Steve's voice.] Yuh's angrj 
an' yuh's hurt. Sure! Doan I know it? 
Now I've got five hundred dollars an' 
half of it's yours fer bein' on the level 
an' puttin' in that number fer me. If 
it hadn't come, I'd a' bin broke, flat. 
Bert's wife got my last fifty. Well, 
I'm Hush now, see? You take what's 
comin's tuh yuh, kid, an' buck up. Fer- 
get 'bout Bert an' have a good time. 
Why'nt yuh go home an' see yuh folks 
fer a spell? 

Mavis. I wish tuh Gawd I could, 
but — [She turns niva\ with a hopeless 
gesture. ] 

Steve. Well, you start ter-morrow. 
We're goin' fifty-fifty on this. Say yuh 
didn't leave a bov friend down in Ral- 
eigh, did yuh? 

Mavis. I couldn't never pav you 

Steve. Yuh doan have to. Say, vuh 
know I'm dead gone on yuh, Mavis. 
Yuh wouldn't never let me spend noth- 
in' on yuh when I took yuh out, an' 
I ain't never give vuh a present. Now 
vou take that money an' go home. I'll 
look after little Bertie an' see he doan 
die of a broken heart. 

Mavis. You — you — why Steve, you's 
a fool. A fool! Yuh knows the chances 
are you won't never see me no more. 
I won't come back. 

Steve. Rot. The chances are yuh 
won't stay home a month. Whv kid, 
yuh couldn't stay away from Harlem 
on a bet. Not Harlem! No sir! An' say 
if yuh ain't back in a month, doan be 
surprised tuh see little Stevie crossin' 
the Mason Dixon tuh see an old pal! 

Mavis. Steve, I can't go! I'm 
.ashamed! I wrote tuh tell them I was 
gonna get married. I didn' write 'till 

akin' it 


5ert, I'm 


vis look 



[ 29 &••- 



yesterday, when I was sure. I can't go! 
I can't! [She throws herself on the day 
bed and sobs — slow, body-racking sobs. 
Steve's right hand goes into his pocket 
■with a sudden thrust. Without a word 
he moves toward the door. As he turns 
the knob, Mavis springs up, runs toward 
him and seizes him by the arm.] 

Mavis. Come back, Steve. Yuh's 
crazy tuh think uh such a thing! 

Steve. I gotta! [He shakes her off . \ 

Mavis. Steve! Gimme that gun ! 

Steve. No! 

Mavis. I'll go home, Steve! Honest! 
I'll do anything yuh say, but fer Gawd's 
sake, doan do no killin'. Steve! Please! 

Steve. Alright. 

Mavis. Yuh mean it? 

Sieve. I said alright, didn't I? 

Mavis. But — I wish yuh'd smile, 
Steve. Yuh face doan look natural, not 

Steve. [Smiling.] Well, what next? 

Mavis. Gimme that gun, Steve. 

Steve. [Hands her the revolver. 
Mavis takes out the cartridges and puts 
the revolver into a drawer of her trunk. 
Steve watches her and smiles again.] 
Now you do something fer me. 

Mavis. What? 

Steve. Put some powder on yuh 
face an' come on. 

( Editor's Note): This play, which was ( 
Opportunity, won second prize in the 1927 literal 

Mavis. [Obeying.] Where we 
goin', Steve? 

Steve. We're goin' tuh a cabaret an' 
we're gonna dance an' dance an' then 
dance some more. Darned if I ain't 
thirsty, too. An' I doan mean maybe. 
[He picks up the money on the table 
and crams it into Mavis' purse. Sud- 
denly he laughs happily, joyously. 

Mavis stares at him in astonishment.] 

Mavis. What yuh laughin' at, Steve? 

Steve. I was jes' thinkin', if I ain't 
the lucky guy, hittin' that number like 
that an' — an' everything! But I had 
a hunch! Say, Mavis? 

Mavis. What? [She closes her trunk 
and locks it.] 

Steve. [Opening the hall door and 
looking around at Mavis.] I have a 
hunch we're gonna have a bang up 
time. No foolin'! 

Mavis. [Looking around the room.] 
Got everything? 

Steve. I'll tell the world, I have! 

Mavis. [Switching off the lights.] 
Alright. Let's go! 

Steve. [Joyously. | An' I doan mean 
maybe ! 

[The hall door closes and the key is 
turned in the lock.] 


through the kindness of the edit 
t sponsored by that publication. 



-4 30 }§►- 

y Mfe^fesj^k^fe&%Mfe& fe^&&. 


"Poetry Section 




You were the last bulwark of my dreams, 

And now you, too, have tumbled down into the dust. 

You, too, are no more than a broken lie. 


came between us 

green and slimy 

like sickly laughter 

and a bowl was broken 

from which 

we could not drink thereafter 

and we turned around 

and threw 

the shattered bits 

upon the ground 

and went our separate ways 

into the town 

and a clock 

somewhere in a tower 

boomed out slowly 

hour after hour 

a great cracked 

broken sound. 
You were the last bulwark of my dreams, 
And now you, too, have tumbled down. 

-4 32 fc- 

An Old Story *** 




"I must be ready when he comes," she said, 
"Besieger of the heart, the long-adored ; 
And I shall know him by his regal tread, 
And by the grace peculiar to my lord. 
Upon my mouth his lips shall be a sword; 
Splendid is he by whom this breast shall fall, 
This hive of honey burst, this fruit be cored." 
So beauty that would be a willing thrall 
Kept vigil, eyes aglow, ear tuned to hear his call. 

Had she not had her dream she might have seen 

For what he was the stranger at her gate, 

And known his rugged hands, strong mouth, and lean, 

Hawk-face spelled out for her a star-spun fate. 

But captive to a dream she let him wait 

In vain for any word she might have said 

Whereat he might declare himself her mate. 

She looked him through as one unknown or dead; 

He passed, an unseen halo blazing round his head. 

The grave will be her only lover now, 
Though still she watches for the shining one, 
Her prince in purple robes, with flaming brow, 
Astride a wild steed lineaged from the sun. 
Season to season shades, the long days run 
To longer years; she still is waiting there, 
Not dreaming long ago her siege was done, 
Not knowing it has been her bitter share 
To entertain her heart's high guest all unaware. 

-4 33 ►- 


Threnody To Alice 

By Do 

> Jeffrey Hayes 

Go trace the brilliance 
Of a shooting star 
Across the sky 
And learn O timid Soul 
That happiness is *but a 

shooting star 

That glows in tempting beauty but to die. . . . 

Go find a lonely rose beyond the hill 

Hid in the twilight while the world is still 

And take that tender blossom 

Within your cupped hand 

And shed your burning tears of anguish there 

Upon the rose .... for roses understand. . . 

Go sing your soft lament 
Unto the night 

And let the darkness kiss your fevered lips 
And wrap you 'round with one prolonged embrace 
And whisper to your love 
To be at peace. . . . 

Go seek the story of a nightingale 

Go seek the council of a lonely loon 

And learn of them 

That from this world you are apart 

A minor grace-note 

To a major tune. . . . 

-< 34 ►- 

The Dark Brother 

By Lewis Alexander 

"Lo, I am black but I am comely too, 
Black as the night, black as the deep dark caves. 
I am the scion of a race of slaves 
Who helped to build a nation strong that you 
And I may stand within the world's full view, 
Fearless and firm as dreadnoughts on rough waves; 
Holding a banner high whose floating braves 
The opposition of the tried untrue. 


Casting an eye of love upon my face, 

Seeing a newer light within my eyes 

A rarer beauty in your brother race 

Will merge upon your visioning fullwise. 

Though I am black my heart through love is pure, 

And you through love my blackness shall endure!' 

No Images 

By Waring Cuney 

She does not know 

Her beauty 

She thinks her brown body 

Has no glory 

If she could dance 


Under palm trees 

And see her image in the river 

She would know 

But there are no palm trees 

On the street 

And dish water gives back no images 

\15 ) 



Virginia Memories 

By Edward S. Silvera 

Dawn — 

And the forms of trees 
Against the sky, 
Dark trees, 

Scrawny and earth hardened 
Like the hands of those who toil. 

And the hands of my people 
Stretching upward 
As they have 
For ages. 

Old Things 
Wine aged in wood, 
The dusty portrait in the attic, 
Grandmother's gray hair, 

(Things old as the earth is old 
And beautiful as the earth) 
Old things — ■ 

Sometimes they are good to hear 
Or taste 
Or to look at : 
More often 
They are pleasant to think of. 

Virginia Scenery 
Mountains that rise 
Like colossal brown breasts, 
Skies that bend low, 
Blue skies 
That bend low, 
Sucking from big brown breasts. 


Close Your Eyes rhe 


#y Arna Bontemps 

Go through the gates with closed eyes. 

Stand erect and let your black face front the west. ..«>«<,.. 

Drop the ax and leave the timber where it lies; 
A woodman on the hills must have his rest. May 

Go where leaves are lying brown and wet. 

Forget her warm arms and her breast who mothered you 

And every face you ever loved forget. 

Close your eyes; walk bravely through. 


By Arna Bontemps 

I sought you long, your likeness in the sunsets 
Beckoning me; on my knees 
I came but you were not among the violets 
Nor underneath the lilac trees. 

The little tire you set to burn 
Is down to ash and near Love stands 
Drenched in rain. Turn Quintilla, O turn 
And think of how I sought your coal-black hands. 


By Georgia Douglas Johnson 

Would I might mend the fabric of my youth 
Which daily flaunts its tatters to my eyes, 
Would I might compromise awhile with Truth 
Until Love's moon, now waxing, wanes and dies. 

For I would go a further while with you 
And drain this Cup of Joy so passing fair, 
Which meets my parched lips like cooling dew 
'Ere Time has brushed cold fingers thru my hair. 

-4 37 Jfr- 

^ Paradox 



By Angelina W. Grimke 

When face to face we stand 
•'>'»<'■■ And eye to eye, 

How far apart we are — 
May As far, they say, as God can ever be 

1927 From what, they say, is Hell. 

But, when we stand 

Fronting the other, 

Mile after mile slipping in between, 

O, close we are. 

As close as is the shadow to the body, 

As breath, to life, . . . 

As kisses are to love. 

Under The Days 

By Angelina W. Grimke' 

The days fall upon me; 

One by one, they fall, 

Like leaves. . . . 

They are black, 

They are grey. 

They are white; 

They are shot through with gold and fire. 

They fall, 

They fall 


They cover me, 

They crush, 

They smother. 

Who will ever find me 

Under the days? 

-h6( 38 ►- 


Sun Disk 

By Effie Lee Newsome 

Grand Old Egypt dead, 

What words shall thank thee 

For the tenuous touch that carved the portion, 

And wrought apart the place unchanging May 

That marks the dark man's challenge 

From the ancient world of art? 

That wide-winged sun has wended through the ages, 

And known its shape on silk and blinding page, 

Been inset with the gems of burning jewels 

By artisans who swung again the disk 

On wings outspread which sweep the centuries by! 

Signet of Ra that the swart Pharaohs singled 

"Sons of the sun," 

When time and the russet mummy are lost in abyss, 

And symbol and sun disk shall no longer bind death 

By mystical strands to the cycles of earth, 

That wisdom supernal which made wise the Pharaohs 

Shall judge generations more knowing than they, 

Which bury themselves deep in His life eternal, 

That fain would fold races in infinity. 


By Nelson H. Nichols, Jr. 

When it is Summer, 

No one prefers the evergreen bush 

To the rose 

Or the violet, 
But when Winter draws near 

The roses fade 

The violets wither — 
But the evergreen bush does neither. 

-■■§{ 39 )§•»- 


By Carrie W. Clifford 

Forgive me that my voice is low, 
And charged with sorrow my brief song, 
For I must sing — though brokenly, 
y Who have been mute so long! 


I cannot run the gamut through, 
The compass of my voice is small, 
My range is slight, but I must heed 
My heart's insistent call! 

These flutings, faint, a portent are, 
Of what the future years may bring, 
When soaring high, unfettered, free, 
My 'raptured soul shall sing! 

And though this plaintive pleading now, 
Irks with its minor, wistful wailing, 
You feel the passion, sense the power, 
Which yet may prove availing. 

For caught within my simple song. 
Is zealous ardor, fervent feeling} 
And deep emotion's cleansing flame, 

My burgeoning self revealing. 


H( 40 }§•»- 

Book c Review 

Fine Clothes to the Jew. By Langston Hughes. Alfred A. Knopf. Price $2.00. 
"Fine Clothes to the Jew," reveals the fact that Mr. Hughes understands 
completely the lives of the more primitive tvpes of Negro. No one who knows inti- 
mately the Negro crap shooters, gamblers, typical gin Mary's, bootblacks, bell boys, 
cabaret girls, piano plunkers, makers of folk songs, street walkers, and old rounders 
can deny this. This poet enters into the spirit of the lives of these people and paints 
them with a sympathy and understanding not matched in contemporary literature. 
It is true that there is much sordidness and ugliness in the lives of the more primitive 
types of the Negro, but yet the same is true of the more primitive types of any racial 
group. The sordidness and ugliness present in the lives of these folks do not constitute 
a reason why they are not fit subjects for literary treatment. In real life we find 
ugliness along side of beauty; hence in literature which is true to life we must expect 
to find the same conditions existing and without a shadow of doubt, Mr. Hughes has 
not failed to portray the life of which he treats with all its terrible reality. 

Nowhere does he attempt to cover up; therefore his work has that fine sincerity 
which is the essence of all true poetry. We may select from his work at random but 
at all times we feel that the author knows whereof he speaks. He has actually lived 
with and knows well the people and conditions of which he writes. No vain preten- 
sions or fanciful imagination here — only reality. 

In addition to his sincerity, Mr. Hughes possesses an originality in his writing 
which is quite refreshing. He goes directly to the source for his material and reports 
his findings as he sees them. The result is quite delightful. 

Mr. Hughes also shows that he understands something of the economic revolution 
which is taking place in the mind of the Negro. Let us read his poem entitled 
"The Porter." 

"I must say 

Yes, sir, 

To you all the time. 

Yes, sir! 

Yes, sir! 

All my days 

Climbing up a great big mountain 

Of yes, sirs! 



Rich old white man 
Owns the world. 
Gimme yo' shoes 
To shine. 


Yes, sir!" 

In this poem the porter realizes the servility of his position. There was a time 
in Negro history when the porter and other domestic servants of the white folks felt 
themselves superior to the Negro farm hand or the Negro laborer, or even the Negro 
mechanic. This condition existed in the minds of the former type of Negro, probably 
because he wore clean clothes, a tie and collar while the latter wore soiled clothes and 
greasy overalls. Of course, this is the same fallacy which makes the small white 
American clerk think himself superior to any and all other workers simply because 
he has a "white collar" job. There are many poems in this book which might come 
in for specific mention but as space is limited I cannot consider all of them; but 
I daresay there is the poem "Mulatto" which is the masterpiece of the book. 

"I am your son, white man! 

Georgia dusk 

And the turpentine woods. 

One of the pillars of the temple fell. 

You are my son! 
Like hell! ' 

The moon over the turpentine woods. 

The Southern night 

Full of stars, 

Great big yellow stars. 

Juicy bodies 

Of nigger wenches 

Blue black 

Against black fences. 

O, you little bastard boy, 

What's a body but a toy? 
The scent of pine wood stings the soft 
night air. 

What's the body of your mother? 
Silver moonlight everywhere. 

What's the body of your mother? 
Sharp pine scent in the evening air. 

-Hgf 42 )§►- 

A nigger night, The 

A nigger joy, CAROLINA 

A little yellow 
Bastard boy. 


Naw, you ain't my brother. ■•<>*<..• 

Niggers ain't my brother. 

Not ever. May 

Niggers ain't my brother. 

The Southern night is full of stars, 
Great big yellow stars. 

O, sweet as earth, 

IJusk dark bodies 

Give sweet birth 
To little yellow bastard boys. 

Git on back there in the nighty 
You ain't white. 

The bright stars scatter everywhere. 
Pine wood scent in the evening air. 

A nigger night, 

A nigger joy. 

/ am your son, white man! 

A little yellow 
Bastard boy. 

Nowhere do we find a more powerful picture of a delicate Negro- White situation. 
Mr. Hughes has said in the space of one short poem all that can be said about the 
matter. One could write a volume on what he implies in this one short poem. And 
the poem is excellently done too — vivid, graphic, poignant. Who has written a more 
piercing lyric on the terrible crime, lynching, than his "Song For A Dark Girl"? 

"Way Down South in Dixie 

(Break the heart of me) 
They hung my black young lover 

To a cross roads tree. 

Way Down South in Dixie 

(Bruised body high in air) 

-4 43 fc- 




I asked the white Lord Jesus 

What was the use of prayer. 

Way Down South in Dixie 

(Break the heart of me) 
Love is a naked shadow 

On a gnarled and naked tree." 

Mr. Hughes will continue in his good work. He is a real poet and at the rate he 
is going will develop into a genuine folk poet worthy of being called the spokesman 
of the black masses of America. He is a real poet despite the fact that he does not 
adhere strictly to the conventional subject matter and conventional poetic patterns, 
but those who understand anything about the matter at all will concede that the 
essence of real poetry certainly does not lie in conventionality. 

Lewis Alexander 

T'he Negro Enters Literature 

{Continued from page nine) 

"Her skin is like dusk on the Eastern horizon, 
O can't you see it, O can't you see it, 
Her skin is like dusk on the Eastern horizon, 
— When the sun goes down." 

More than artist he was an experimentalist, and this last quality has carried 
him away from what was, perhaps, the most astonishingly brilliant beginning 
of any Negro writer of his generation. 

With Countee Cullen came a new generation of Negro singers. Claude 
McKay had brought a strange geographical background to the American 
scene which enabled him to escape a measure of the peculiar social heritage 
of the American Negro. Cullen brought to this scene the fresh view of an 
American Negro which similarly lacked the impedimenta of an inhibiting 
tradition. He relied upon nothing but his own sure competence and art. 
One month found three literary magazines carrying his verse simultan- 
eously, a distinction not to be spurned by any young poet. Then came his 
hrst volume, Color. He brought an uncannily sudden maturity and classic 
sweep, a swift grace and an unescapable beauty of style and meaning. The 
spirit of the transplanted African moved through his music to a new defini- 
tion — relating itself boldly to its past and present: 

-<{ 44 )9h- 

"Lord, not for what I saw in flesh or bone 
Of fairer men, not raised on faith alone; 
Lord, I will live persuaded by mine own. 
I cannot play the recreant to these; 
My spirit has come home, that sailed the doubtful seas. 1 ' 

Thus he spoke, not for himself alone, but for the confident generation from 
which he came. White gods faded and in their place arose the graces of 
a race he knew: 

"Pier walk is like the replica 

Of some barbaric dance 

Wherein the soul of Africa 

Is winged with arrogance." 

and again: 

"That brown girls swagger gives 
To beauty like a queen." 

a twitch 

No brief quotations can describe this power, this questioning of life and 
even God, the swift arrow thrusts of irony curiously mingled with admira- 
tion, the self reliance, the bold pride of race, the thorough repudiation of 
the double standard of literary judgment. He may have marvelled "at this 
curious thing to make a poet black and bid him sing," but in his Heritage 
he voiced the half-religious, half-challenging spirit of an awakened genera- 

"Lord, I fashion dark gods too 

Daring even to give to You 

Dark, despairing features where 

Crowned with dark rebellious hair, 

Patience wavers just so much as 

Mortal grief compels, while touches 

Faint and slow, of anger rise 

To smitten cheek and weary eyes. 

Lord forgive me if my need 
Sometimes shapes a human creed." 

"He will be remembered," says the Manchester Guardian, "as one who 
contributed to his age some of its loveliest lyric poetry." 

Langston Hughes, at twenty-four has published two volumes of verse. 
No Negro writer so completely symbolizes the new emancipation of the 


<{ 45 )»- 

Negro mind. His is a poetry of gorgeous colors, of restless brooding, of 
melancholy, of disillusionment: 

"We should have a land of sun 

Of gorgeous sun, 
-'>'"<"• And a land of fragrant water 

Where the twilight 
May Is a soft bandana handkerchief 

1927 Of rose and gold 

And not this land where life is cold. 

There are few short poems more beautiful than his Suicide's Note: 

"The calm, 
Cool face of the rivet- 
Asked me for a kiss." 

Always there is a wistful undertone, a quiet sadness. That is why, perhaps, 
he could speak so tenderly of the broken lives of prostitutes, the inner 
weariness of painted "jazz-hounds," and the tragic emptiness beneath the 
glamour and noise of Harlem cabarets: 

"Does a jazz-band ever sob: 
They say a jazz-band's gay 
Yet as the vulgar dancers whirled 
And the wan night wore away, 
One said he heard the jazz-band sob 
When the little dawn was grey." 

His first volume, The Weary Blues, contained many moods, the second, 
Fine Clothes to the Jew, marks his final frank turning to the folk life of 
the Negro, a striving to catch and give back to the world the strange music 
of the unlettered Negro — his Blues. If Cullen has given a classic beauty 
to the emotions of the race, Hughes has given a warm glow of meaning to 
their lives. 

Each year has revealed new voices. The list of younger poets includes: 
Arna Bontemps born in Louisiana, now living in New York, Frank Home 
of Brooklyn, now living in Georgia, Lewis Alexander of Washington, 
Helene Johnson of Brookline, Massachusetts, Waring Cuney of Boston, 
Sterling Brown of Missouri, Clarissa Scott Delaney of Washington and 
New York, Gwendolyn Bennett of Brooklyn, John Matheus of West Vir- 

-•$ 46 ►- 

ginia, Donald Hayes of Atlantic City, New Jersey, and Blanche Taylor 
Dickinson of Pennsylvania. They are, one might say, the newest voices. 
No one looking for a "school of poetry" will find it here. Bontemps' verse 
has been characterized by Robert Frost as "the wayward thinking of real 
poetry"; there is about all of his things a strangely haunting stillness. 
Gwendolyn Bennett's lyrics have a lithe grace and a precise craftsmanship. 
Frank Home is exuberant and hearty. Alexander, interesting enough, has 
been most successful with his Japanese Hokku poems. Matheus brings what 
William Rose Benet aptly calls "a wild magic of color." Helene Johnson 
has a lyric penetration which belies her years, and a rich and impetuous 
power. Life, their own lives, the full and free emotions of a race, their 
loves, hates, futility, all that pains to a lyric outcry, is embodied in their 

Much attention has been given to the poets. The writers of fiction have 
been few, the writers of drama, fewer. Walter White's, Fire in the Flint, 
was a powerful story of a Negro family in a southern town, balked into a 
sombre tragedy. Flight, a second novel by the same author, was concerned 
with the vicissitudes of a Negro girl who left her race and returned. 
W. E. B. DuBois, in 1911 wrote an epic of cotton, The Quest of the Silver 
Fleece y which was obviously fore-timed. It is however, one of the two books 
by Negro authors translated into the Russian language. The other is Rene 
Marau's, Batuala. Jessie Fauset's, There is Confusion, was an attempt to 
depict the life and fortunes of the educated Negro middle class. It was a 
piece of careful competent writing, and has gone through an English 

Of the short story writers, Jean Toomer, Eric Walrond, Rudolph 
Fisher, Arthur HufF Fauset, John Matheus, Zora Neale Hurston, Dorothy 
West and Eugene Gordon are at the same time the most successful and 
most promising. In this field, as in poetry, these new writers have abandoned 
the futile alchemy of trying to correct the outworn stereotypes of Negro 
characters in fiction through reversing the color of the heroes and villains ; 
they are pointing their plows in the virgin soil of their own people ; and, 
mirable dictu, they are beginning to make them interesting. Rudolph 
Fisher's stories in the Atlantic Monthly have breathed life into the migrant 
Southern and West Indian Negroes in New York. Zora Neale Hurston's 
stories are slices of life out of the South, realistic and moving. Walrond's 
first volume of Carribean Stories, Tropic Death, reveals him as the most 
coldly objective Negro writer of this period. In a sense they are not stories 

-4 47 fa°- 






at all, but a series of sense impressions, stark and unf orgetable ; they are 
the hot breath and foul tang of the tropics themselves. Fauset's Symphon- 
esque, a 1926 Opportunity prize winner, was included in two anthologies of 
the best short stories of the year. 

In Drama, Angelina Grimke and Willis Richardson of Washington, 
Eloise Bibb Thompson of California, and Eulalie Spence of New York, 
have made the most notable beginnings. The little theatre groups springing 
up in the culture centers are making more effective plays of Negro life 
imperative, and they will come! 

The almost universal concern with social problems has even to this date 
precluded direct excursions into the held of belles lettres. There has been, 
however, writing of a marked character with these very problems and group 
aspirations at the base. One thinks of DuBois' Dark 11 'ater, of the penetrat- 
ing essays of Kelly Miller in his two volumes, Race Adjustment and Out of 
the House of Bondage, and of the two published volumes of William 

Unclassified, but of great importance not merely to Negro literature 
but to the spirit of the new creators of it, is The New Negro, a collection of 
recent poetry, fiction, and essays, edited by Alain Locke. It is, for the 
stranger to this new Negro life and thinking, the portal to a new world of 

Not without conviction do Negroes refer to this decade as the "renais- 
sance," the period of "the awakening." A brief ten years have developed 
more confident self-expression, more widespread efforts in the direction of 
art than the two long, dreary centuries before. And on the gonfalon of this 
guard, one of them has written this: 

"We have tomorrow 
Bright before us 
Like a flame 

Yesterday, a night gone thing 
A sun-down name. 

And dawn today 

Broad arch above the road we came. 

We march!" 

■■<( 48 &~ 


(Continued from page nineteen) 

He laughed aloud. He cried; he panted. He crooned to himself as if 
to soothe his torn soul; half speaking, half-singing he consoled himself in 
words of self-pity and encouragement. 

"What's matter, ol' Cudjo:" he said. "Caint yo' all behave yo'se'f? 
Yo' all done raise 'nough hell fo' one day! " 

The echoes of another song wafted over from the river. Me heard the 
congregation, crying and screaming, and listened to their stamping and 

"Take ma!i Lawd away, Lawd away, Lawd away, 

Take mah Lawd away. 

Not a mumbelin' word did he say, 

Nevah said a mumbelin' word. 


Not a word, 
Not a word, 
Nevah said a mumbelin' word." 

Music. Rhythm. Dancing. 

Warm bodies swaying like tall sugar cane in an evening breeze. The 
earth seemed to be swaying beneath him. Unconsciously his own body 
commenced to sway. A tongue of flame shot from beneath a hidden soul- 
cloud and set his whole body on fire. Desire possessed his body. He 
felt an outpouring of white hot desire. 

Like a starved beast of the forest who scents game Cudjo sprang erect 
and poised himself for the leap to the goal of his desire. Savage music 
tingled in his hot blood. His feet danced away to the mad strains and 
carried him on through the dry grass in long rapid strides. 

Gum Ridge lay in the distance. Nearer and nearer his feet took him, 
then more than half way around, till he could see a cozy green cabin that 
lay sequestered beneath some maple trees. 

Slackening his pace, Cudjo peered intently, while his heart thumped 
against his chest like angry waters against the shore .... Each thump 
was a song .... each song a dance .... and she who danced .... 
was .... Amber Lee. 

Fires within and without. 

-<{ 49 fc- 


Cudjo stooped down in some tall bushes that offered protection from 
the sun. He heard the swarming of insects. He knew: they were singing- 
songs to each other. He bent down and listened .... and understood. 

"I want you I . want you I'm coming after 

honey coming after you and take you. . take 

my honey I'm coming to take you. . you. . . you. 

to wrap myself around you all . . 

take . you . you m' honey . take my honey 
want you I'm going to take you ..." 

He listened intently for the answer. 
"Come and take me come and . take me 

I want you to take me 

you . . Hear 
. I'm going . 
over .... you . . 
your honey . . 


me but you've got to catch me 

you've got to . catch me Come and take me come 

take me . . come . . and. . wrap yourself all 

around me and . . over . . . . me . . and take me ... . take my 

honey come and ... take . " 

So this was it! 

Cudjo sprang to his feet. He wanted to rush out blindly to seize her 

and carry her far off. 

The blistering sun brought him back to some realization of earth. He 
gazed skyward and exclaimed, "Lawd, how comes ah nevah know befo' dis? 
. Lawd, ah wants her Amber Lee ... dat's what been ailin' me 

. . Lawd, ah wants her. . an' Lawd ah gwine tek her!" 

He looked in the direction of the cabin. It stood in a forest of shade. 
At first sun blindness prevented him from seeing. He peered intently into 
the open space between the cabin and the trees that sheltered . She was 

Amber Lee. 

Pale straw face brown. Sad face Amber Lee. Luscious big brown 

eyes like swelling bays of tears. Pity sadness . hunger . warmth 

Amber Lee . Two warm golden-brown breasts soft like young birds' 

feathers flaky soft .... Amber Lee . . Pale straw face brown 

Amber Lee Limbs full and graceful like apple boughs in spring. 

Oh . . oh. ... . xAmber Lee . amber Amber Lee why did God 
make you so lovely, so lovely down there under that tropical sun where 
hearts whose passions lie asleep wake overnight throbbing with hot desire 
. where new seed shoots when the old has scarcely taken root? 

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Cudjo watched her intently. He lay flat on his belly, hidden in the 
parched grass while the sun beat down upon him like a burning flail. He 
only felt a burning sensation from within. 

His body was a drum: his heart was the drummer . The flames were 
-<>.ii<>.- passion music. 

And why, dear Cudjo, do you lie there on your belly and hide like a 
May w 'ld beast intent on seizing its prey? Is it not the one . . . . your Amber Lee 

iQ2j ■ ■ ■ the only one in fifty miles who ever understood you and your strange 

fancies and dreams? It is no new experience for you to hold her in 

your arms . . . . Remember the day you rescued her from the lake? . You 
have been her friend and playmate. You have done her chores for her. 
She has sat down at your feet in the dark shadows of the night and listened 
to you as you told her your dreams and your fantasies. 

Why then do you linger in the tall grass and let the relentless sun smite 
you while you only devour your treasure with your eyes? 

Amber Lee. 

Amber Lee feels no presence; she sees no person. She feels only herself, 
her budding self It is warm, it is hot, it is smouldering She is warm 

she is hot she is smouldering . . . 

Her heart sings an inward song. She feels but she does not understand 
. . . What is this which thunders like a rumbling polonaise and marches 
through her tortuous limbs on up to the ruddy tips of her swelling breasts? 

She hears the song of nature's creatures and feels its echoes quivering 
through her limbs and breasts. 

"Come and take me come and . take me me 

But you've got to catch me got ... to catch me come 

and take me ... . come . and wrap . yourself all around 

. . . me and over me ... . and take . ... me take my honey 
. come. . " 

But she cannot understand . . . 

The sun had passed beyond the last high curve in the vaulted heavens. 
Slowly it retreated into the distant west, the pale whiteness of noon absorbed 
in a vista that grew more and more rosy. 

But Cudjo perceived only Amber Lee. Unnoticed were the softer rays 
of the receding sun; unnoticed the shade which steadily enveloped the fields 
where he lay hidden. The outer cool only intensified his intense heat. He 
lay in the grass like a panting beast, his mouth watering for the distant prey. 

-«f 52 )8h- 

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He could contain himself no longer. Like a tricky savage he quietly 
bestirred himself. Like a sneak thief in the night he stole his way towards 

The friend and playmate of Amber Lee, twin to her sorrows and long- 
ings, stole his way towards her, gliding through the tall grass and skirting 
the leafy trees like a sneak thief in the night. 

Amber Lee. 

Gradually she sensed him, sensed a presence What was it? 

What was that rumbling through her limbs, her bosom, that quivering in 
her breasts? What did she want . want- . want? 

Before she knew even before he could realize . she was in his 

arms in Cudjo's warm perspiring brown arms that throbbed and quiv- 

ered with passion. 

She looked into his eyes, ravenous flaming eyes that peered out at her 
as through a silken shade. A chill came over her as she saw those eyes; she 
became suddenly cold with fright. 

She lay in his arms affrighted, like a startled fawn who after she has 
been pounced upon by a wild beast cowers in silence and stares with an icy 

She perceived the message of those eyes: "I want you I want you 

you . you I want you." 

Her own which had been so soft and warm responded with terror. 

The starved beast has his prize. He feasts upon her with his eyes but 
as he sees her own stricken with terror he can find in them no answering 

He has her. She makes no outcry; she offers no resistance. She is his, 
all his But she rests in his arms a poor quivering human leaf, her eyes 

melting into tears of shame. 

The fires that had leaped into burning flame so suddenly, fled as precipi- 
tously back to the dark recesses from which they sprang. 

Cudjo's eyes filled with tears. Tears of what? He stroked Amber 

Lee's face and hair gently. 

"Me, me," he whispered, "Gawd, Amber Lee, it's me yo' all know 

me Cudjo ah wouldn't hurt a hair on yo' head Amber Lee 

Amber Lee, m' chile, it's me . Jes' want scare mah lil' Amber Lee, da's 
all . Lee Amber, Amber Lee. . . Un'stan'? Jes' want scare mah lil' 

Amber Lee." 

(Continued on page fifty-*™) 

-«8f 54 )3*- 

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In compiling the Negro Number of The Carolina Magazine, it has 
been the purpose of the editors to present an issue representative of Negro 
life and art. For whatever success we may attain, we are indebted to our 
honorary editor, Mr. Lewis Alexander of Washington, D. C, who has been 
indispensable in assembling the material. We also wish to thank Mr. 
Charles S. Johnson, editor of Opportunity — A Journal of Negro Life, for 
expanding the field and contributing an article which is a key to the issue 
and an identification to the writers. 


{Continued from page fifty-four) 

He placed her gently on the warm grass and did not even kiss her. 

She sat upright and looked at him as through a cloud. Limbs quivering, 
mouth wide open, she kept staring at him. All the warm music of her body 
had ceased j the song in her limbs and breasts had vanished. Once she felt 
a chill breath steal over her. that might have been like death. She quivered. 

"Cudjo, Cudjo, you, only you! But it wasn't you at first. No no, Cudjo, 
not you. Only some fierce demon who looked at me with frightful eyes 
like Satan's . . And you rescued me, didn't you, Cudjo, just like you saved 
me in the lake! Oh, Cudjo! " she exclaimed, and buried her head in her own 

Cudjo looked down upon her in silence. Far in the west he saw a blood 
red sun retreating under banks of thick dark cloud. Gum Ridge waned in 
the distance, a thin shimmering light playing on her crest. 

His own body was cool now. The flaming coals of high noon were 
reduced to barely flickering ashes. His eyelids closed. Without so much as 
a single look backwards he started towards the towering hill. It seemed far 

Slowly he mounted its steep sides to the summit. A chill wind had 
commenced to blow; it was cool there. 

He sat on a ledge which jutted out from the very topmost point of the 
hill and dropped tiny pebbles on the little huts below. 

The sinking sun disappeared in the big hollow under the west. 
-h8( 56 }>- 

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